The Same Deep Water

by Swallow, Lisa

  A man sidesteps the group and heads toward me. I recognise Guy’s gait but until he reaches me, he’s indiscernible from the crowd. Guy’s white mask obscures half his face, but his strong jaw and full mouth are visible still. The well-cut black suit jacket is unbuttoned, a grey shirt with bow tie beneath.

  Guy looks a hell of a lot hotter out of his boardies and the control over my attraction to him loosens further.

  A low whistle accompanies Guy’s appraisal of me. “You scrub up well.”

  “Nicely put. You’re not quite Prince Charming then?”

  “Not if you’re Belle.” He crooks his elbow indicating I should place my arm through his.

  “Belle?”

  “You’re wearing gold which is closer to yellow. Beauty and the Beast.”

  “I’d hardly call you a beast.” I hesitate over whether to take his arm or not.

  “There are so many inappropriate responses I can give to that comment and won’t.” He pauses. “I’ve told you before, you’re beautiful.”

  I blush like a teenager beneath my mask and heavy make-up. “Thanks.”

  “Not just tonight,” he says softly.

  I hastily change the subject. “You look very different in a suit.”

  “Devastatingly sexy?”

  “I was going to go with ‘good’.” Yes, and you know you are.

  “‘Good’? Not even hot? Seriously?”

  “I’m never sure whether you’re serious and in love with yourself, or if you’re joking.”

  “Ah, a bit of both.” He gestures again for me to take his arm.

  We touch.

  Every day I touch new people. Shake hands with clients, am jostled by people on the way to and from work, but until now I didn’t realise I’ve avoided touching Guy. When we first met, his touch would’ve pulled me away from the edge and taken away control of my body and decisions.

  As I link my arm through Guy’s, a finality strikes, too. The distance I’ve tried to maintain, the illusion our only connection is a night of my life I refuse to see as part of myself, retreats as we connect. His arm is warm against my bare skin and the curve of his bicep beneath the expensive suit doesn’t escape my attention either. Caught in the romance of the setting, the nervous fluttering in my stomach switches to desire for Guy’s touch. I resolve to limit the amount of alcohol and physical contact for the evening.

  Six glasses of champagne later, this plan fails. We sit at a large, round table covered by a floor length white cloth. In front are nameplates, metal centrepieces of gold painted flowers surrounded by wrapped chocolates. The hundred or so tables are spaced around the huge room and face the stage where a burlesque show plays out.

  Everybody at our table keeps their masks on, and this doesn’t encourage conversation. Many tables are groups who’ve come together; the other five people at our table are a party from a legal firm, so our conversation with them barely moves beyond pleasantries.

  The food served is curious looking hors d’oeuvre only. I forgot to eat with my focus on getting ready tonight. A decent loading of carbs before I left home would’ve been sensible, because the ability of sparkling wine to enter my bloodstream quickly is apparent by my loosening tongue.

  “How do you know so much about Disney princesses?” I ask Guy. “I doubt many men would know the different princess’s colours.”

  “My step-sister loved Disney princesses and Belle was her favourite.” He sips his wine.

  “I liked Cinderella.”

  “Interesting.” I glance at him for a teasing smile, but he’s serious. “Does that mean I get to be Prince Charming after all?”

  “I thought you said I was Belle.”

  He taps the table and I wait for another Beast comment, but none comes.

  The burlesque girls swing across the stage on decorated trapezes, descending from the ceiling in the blue glow of the stage lights. I never understood how burlesque could be any more than arty stripping, but the show refutes that. These women are in control, both of their performance and the crowd. These women don’t subscribe to the crazy fad diets my employers tout; costumed in corsets and lace, they own their sexuality rather than playing to a false ideal.

  “Can you dance?” asks Guy.

  Our masks remain in situ, the illusion more exciting than I’d imagined. I’m somebody else tonight, disguised and free. There are people here I recognise but the mask allows me to pretend I don’t notice them, further on the edge of the small world of the Perth media and marketing.

  “Dancing? Depends what kind,” I reply.

  “I suspect something more formal and less Gangnam style.”

  An image of Guy dancing that way amuses me and I giggle. “That’s so 2012, Guy.”

  He runs a finger around the rim of his wine glass. “Ah, so she does laugh, and such a sound it is too.”

  “Of course I laugh!”

  “Then I’m happy because this means you’re a step further away from the edge,” he whispers.

  With Guy, I am a step away. In an odd way, he represents a future I never considered, even though he won’t be in mine for long.

  I hesitate when the couples take to the dance floor, folding and unfolding the napkin on my lap and avoiding Guy’s eyes. I can wear my confidence as a mask; but when I’m in new situations, I can’t pretend. One thing I hate is making an idiot of myself. Failing. The last time I formally danced was at my Year 12 ball, where I experienced awkward moments with boys from school who decided ass groping was the height of seduction.

  Guy will ask me to dance and we’ll stand close. The thought fires anticipation over what will happen once my whole body touches his.

  “I can’t tell beneath the mask, but I suspect you’re worrying. Please laugh again,” Guy says.

  “You’ll be the one laughing if you try dancing with me in these shoes.”

  “Belle, you cannot come to a masquerade ball and not dance. I refuse to let you cross this off your list unless you dance at least once.” Guy stands and extends an open hand. “Come on. Relax. Nobody can see you. Let that fun girl out for the evening. I know she’s in there.”

  One dance, my hormones can cope with that, surely.

  The couples on the dancefloor move harmoniously to the gentle sound of the waltz, the women in elegant dresses and their gentlemanly, restrained dance partners create a step back in time. I join Guy at the edge of the floor; and when we face each other, I wish his face wasn’t obscured by the white mask, so I could read him. “You look like the Phantom of the Opera.”

  “Love that musical. Not sure whether I like the comparison though.”

  Surfer Guy likes musicals and art? “Right.”

  A woman in a scarlet red dress sweeps by, her partner leading her across the floor in a graceful movement I doubt I’ll be able to emulate. Before I can comment, Guy circles my waist and pulls me close, taking my hand in his. This is closer than I intended. I didn’t think this through. He’s careful not to draw me too near, but his warmth and strength is apparent even with the gap between us. Guy’s firm grip contrasts his soft hands as he guides me into the dancers.

  In my heels, I’m close to his face and even in the dim, and half-hidden, the sculpted curves of his face and generous mouth paint his beauty. I hesitate, and then place a hand on his back. He’s jacket-less and the strong sinew of the muscles beneath his shirt strikes me. As my head moves closer to his, I catch his scent of spice and the ocean, the one behind his eyes.

  “See. You can dance,” says Guy as he guides me around the dance floor.

  In response, I trip over his feet. “If you don’t remind me and let me go with the flow, your feet will survive.”

  “Fine.” He hasn’t pulled his gaze from mine the whole time, this connection drawing us further into the dance. We naturally follow each other’s movements, as if we’ve done this a hundred times before.

  As the dance progresses, Guy holds me closer, until the last of the space between us disappears.

  He doe
sn’t react but my body does, a sudden heat flowing from the point his fingertips touch the naked skin on my arms, kindling the desire to dig my fingers into his back further. If I keep my eyes on Guy’s, I can stay grounded, ignore the hidden strength of the raw man beneath his cultured exterior, and dismiss the images of what he could do to me.

  Shocked but not entirely surprised when my nipples harden against my bodice, accompanied by a not very chaste tingling elsewhere, I break the point chests touch. Guy doesn’t comment or stop; he continues and loosens his hold on my waist.

  “Sorry,” he whispers against my ear as I move my head to look past him. This unfortunately brings my face closer to his, the side of our unmasked faces brush. I jerk at the sensation.

  “What for?”

  “Getting too close.”

  “We’re dancing. I’m fine.”

  “Do you want to stop?” Guy’s warm breath caresses my cheek, nose touching my ear, and I’m on the verge of twisting my face to gauge if a kiss is next.

  Is this what I want?

  I disentangle myself. “My feet are starting to hurt.”

  “Right.”

  “And I’m tired.”

  The side of Guy’s face I can see shifts into concerned lines. “Everything okay?”

  “I think so.”

  We head through the dancing bodies to the table; I sit and pour myself water from the half-empty carafe. Although neither of us speaks, the awareness the dance has somehow shifted our relationship hovers in the charged air between us. Confused by what I really want from the situation, and aware I have work tomorrow, I resolve to keep the line between us uncrossed.

  “Am I allowed to tick this off my list now?” I ask.

  “You danced. Putting yourself through that trauma deserves a tick.”

  “Dancing wasn’t traumatic!” I say with a laugh.

  “But you stopped. Did I make you uncomfortable?”

  Quite the opposite. “You’re a good dance partner. You didn’t grope my ass so that was a bonus.”

  The dimples appear again. “I have a lot of self-restraint. Your ass is very gropeable.”

  “Nice.”

  He shrugs. “Hey, I’m a man and you’re an attractive girl.”

  My fingers itch to take his mask off and see the expression behind his words, to find if my desire is reflected in his eyes. “Thanks.”

  “This is the part where you tell me I’m ‘hot’, exchange of compliments, remember?”

  “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “Very true. I hope you’re not thinking of leaving soon. I’m enjoying this and I’ve even spotted you beginning to relax.”

  “You’re good company.”

  He laughs. “And you’re so formal!”

  “But I’m not sure I’ll stay much longer, sorry.”

  Guy shakes his wrist to read his watch. “You are Cinderella not Belle. And you’re late, it’s twelve thirty.”

  “Ha ha. You stay if you want.”

  “What point is the prince without the princess?”

  “You’re not a prince, you’re just some Guy.”

  I giggle again; but instead of laughing with me, Guy’s mouth twitches. “Okay, let’s go.”

  He stands and knocks his chair back then strides away. That was a joke, he makes them enough, why be offended by mine? I hurry to catch up, weaving through the half-empty tables and into the shining hotel lobby where other guests mill around. The music from the function room is replaced by the sound of one couple arguing at an uncomfortable volume nearby.

  “I’ll call a taxi, we can share one?” I suggest as I reach Guy.

  “Which direction do you live in?”

  “Leederville.”

  “Wrong way for me, but I’ll come with you, make sure you’re in the taxi safely,” he offers.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The atmosphere has dropped to several degrees below zero and I’m unsure why. I thought our exchange was banter. Guy buries his hands in his jacket pockets and heads outside as I call the taxi, wandering to the large sliding glass doors and watching him as I make the call.

  Guy perches on a wall at the edge of the pick-up area outside the lobby, hands in his pockets, and mask still on.

  “Five minutes,” I say as I approach.

  “Okay.”

  I sit next to him. “Did I annoy you?”

  “Annoy me? No, I was having fun, that’s all. But I understand if you’ve had enough.”

  “I enjoyed myself. Honestly.”

  The arguing couple head past, and when the woman trips and lands on the floor, the man stands and looks down at her, arms crossed.

  “I thought maybe because you’d rather be here with someone else,” he says quietly.

  “No, you’re my travelling companion. Who else would I bring? Complete the lists together, remember?”

  His shoulders relax and he shifts, our legs touching. The summer evening is muggy, no breeze to cool my skin heated by the dance. Guy looks upwards where the Southern Cross shines brightly in the cloudless sky. “Shame. I wish it was raining.”

  “You’d rather wait in the rain?” I ask in surprise.

  Guy smiles beneath his mask and keeps his gaze on the stars. “Your list. Number five. As your travelling companion, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Kiss in the rain.

  My heart skips at his directness. “You want to kiss me?” I whisper.

  “Purely for bucket list purposes.”

  “Take your mask off.” Guy unties the mask and slides it from his face. His hair sticks up on one side and I study him. I need to know the truth behind Guy’s words and the situation.

  “That’s the only reason?” I ask.

  Guy reaches to touch my cheek, drawing a finger along to my jaw, watching the path it takes before looking back to me. “No.”

  The sensation of his finger remains when he removes his hand, and I fight and fail against appearing to be a stupefied teen. “Oh.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  I shift my leg away from his. “Might not be a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure… It’s just…” I grapple for words. “I like being friends.” As soon as the lie is out, I cringe.

  Guy purses his lips, his disappointment clear. “I suspected so. You’re very protective.”

  “Cold?”

  “Protective.” He folds his arms beneath his elbows. “Is one of the reasons because there’s somebody else?”

  “I told you there wasn’t.”

  “Is the reason because I’m going to die?”

  I reel at the interjection of death into our conversation, but Guy’s face is impassive. The words are nothing to him. “No. Not unless my kiss will kill you.”

  “Maybe your kiss would do the opposite.” I attempt to equate the man sitting with me to the casual Aussie bloke who took me for a tattoo, and realise I forget the depth in his eyes.

  “Most guys – men – don’t ask permission before trying their luck,” I say with a small smile.

  He laughs. “I think you want to kiss me too, but I think sometimes, the princess should call the shots.”

  “You’re putting me in control of this?” I ask and stand.

  Guy stands too and looks down at me. He slides my mask upward, into my hair. “To a certain extent, yes.” He rests his fingertips on my lips, and I shiver. “But I like to be in control as much as you do.”

  “Some things we can’t control, can we?”

  “Some things we think we need to when letting go is better.” He shifts closer. “So you’re telling me that I need to ask? Okay…” Guy touches my lips. “Will you kiss me?”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Or do I have to kiss you?”

  I have no idea what to say, shaking from the slightest touch, denying the desire I have for this strange man who I want, but could never stand to fall in love with and lose. Breaking hi
s gaze and the intensity of the moment, I dip my head.

  He sighs. “No problem, I’ll keep my lips to myself.”

  “Until it rains.”

  “Until it rains and then do I have permission?”

  “Maybe.”

  He gives a small shake of his head. “Bloody Perth summers. Can we go to Melbourne, there’s more chance you’ll kiss me there?”

  I could kiss him. Now. Here. We’re seconds away; all that’s needed is one of us to take the step. A step to Guy and back into the deep water.

  A taxi appears nearby, and with it the excuse to break this before I throw myself into Guy’s arms and lose myself in the fantasy of the handsome prince who rescued me almost three months ago.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, Belle,” he calls as I head to the waiting car. “And see you next week for the next item!”

  Chapter Ten

  9 Ask A Stranger On A Date

  Guy doesn’t contact me the next day. Or for several more. This is unusual because we talk at least once every couple of days.

  On the second day, I send him a text asking if he’s okay and receive no response.

  Did I upset him that much? If this is because I wouldn’t kiss him, I’m glad I didn’t. Guy’s looking for somebody whose shoes I can’t fill; I’m frightened of becoming emotionally attached to Guy and a kiss or sex would be the first move toward that. What if I’d relented and kissed him, been swept up in the moment, and we’d continued the fantasy and spent the night together?

  Three more days and three more texts, nothing. My concern something serious could be wrong with Guy has retreated and is replaced by disappointment. I get the hint.

  His rejection pushes confusion and irritation into my days, and I look over my list. Should I plan one without him? But each item I consider feels like a betrayal to my pact with Guy.

  After three weeks of trying to contact him with no response, I take my list from the fridge and push the paper into a kitchen drawer so I don’t have to be reminded of him each time I open the fridge door. I will continue the list, with or without him.

  * * *

  The opportunity to work on one of the items arises a week later; and I’m certain if it weren’t for the list, I’d never consider doing this.