Who’s That Girl?
Page 15
“How am I looking at you?” He puts his Manhattan cocktail on the counter and smiles at me.
“I don’t know… Have I got wine on my face?” I ask, wetting my finger in my mouth and running it around my lips.
“Ah…” The gesture seems to floor him – he looks as though he’s hypnotised by my mouth. At first he doesn’t know what to say, and then he bursts out laughing and murmurs, “Right, how about we decide on a list of things you should never do when you’re with me and there are other people around?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious, let’s do it for the sake of my mental health.” He picks his cocktail back up and takes a swallow. “I’m not asking for anything too difficult, just what’s strictly necessary for me to survive until I manage to drag you to my bedroom.”
“Al!” I scold him. “Are you out of your mind?” But even though I try to stay serious, I can’t help smiling. I am really trying to behave the way I imagine you’re supposed to on a first date, but it’s practically impossible with him. “Do you realise this is the first time that we’ve gone out together?”
“Yep…” he replies, nodding his head.
“Okay,” I laugh, “so what is this list you were talking about?”
He starts chewing on an olive and pondering. “Let’s see,” he says while staring at the ceiling. “First of all, you should never pull any of those weird faces you make when you’re not feeling confident.”
“Hey, I never pull weird faces!” I protest.
“Oh, yes, you do,” he confirms without looking at me. “You frown, you wrinkle your nose…”
“That’s not true!”
“And all those expressions really mess with me.”
“Oh sure…” I mutter. “And for your information, I don’t pull weird faces.”
“You should also not sway when you walk.”
“I sway?”
“Yeah, you know what I mean… You sometimes walk like a cat that’s looking to be petted…”
“Al, are you sure that you’re not mixing me up with someone else?” I ask, thinking he’s just teasing me.
“And you can’t dress sexy!”
“Oh, okay, well that’s easy enough – I never dress sexy.”
“That’s not true.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have all those terrible little dresses…”
“Like this one?” I say, shrugging a shoulder up with an innocent expression on my face. He closes his eyes for a moment, then goes back to looking at the olives, trying not to show his irritation.
“This one, the black one, the blue one… That other blue top that’s braided on the back and that green one with… with…” He indicates one of his shoulders, “with something here…”
“Al, are you by any chance talking about my old knitted pullover with the cats on it?”
“Yes, especially the old knitted pullover with the cats on it!”
“Okay,” I burst out laughing, “you’re just teasing me.”
“No, I’m absolutely serious! And I know that you know that you drive me crazy when you wear those things and that you do it on purpose!”
“Follow me, please,” I hear the waiter saying to someone. “I’m certain that your table is almost ready, but just let me check,” he explains obsequiously. I can’t help but notice that his tone is quite different to the one he used when he talked to us. He then comes over to the bar and says, “Please, be patient for just a few more moments. Your table is almost ready.”
As the maître d’ goes back to the other room, I follow him with my eyes, curious about his change of tone. I only realise the client he was talking to is sitting right next to me when I hear him say my name.
“Sam?”
I turn towards the voice instinctively, but when I realise that it belongs to Dave I feel as though I’m paralysed. He’s wearing a casual outfit, hasn’t shaved and is wearing a cologne that makes my head spin.
“Er…” I stammer, “h… hi Dave,” I finally say, feeling enormously embarrassed.
It’s really Dave. Dave ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ Callaghan. With the millions of restaurants, streets and neighbourhoods in this city, what the hell is he doing here? Anyway, it only takes a single look at him for me to realise that I am totally not over him. I was fooling myself when I thought that I’d found a way out of my crush, but it was just a mirage. A gentle breeze would be enough to blow it away.
“Sam,” he repeats in a more confident voice.
On the other side of me I hear Al clear his throat and I realise hoping that one of them magically disappears is not going to work and that I’m going to have to bite the bullet.
“Where are my manners?” I trill as soon as I’ve regained the power of speech. “Al, this is Dave Callaghan, editor in chief at The Chronicle,” I say, introducing them to each other, despite a very strong impression that neither of them really wants to know the other. “And,” I say after a deep breath, turning towards Dave, “this is Al,” I think about it for a moment and add, “Just Al.”
“Yes,” mutters Dave, barely lifting his head in greeting.
Al’s reply is just as enthusiastic.
They study one another suspiciously but neither of them say anything else, so we end up sitting there in silence for a few moments, each of us staring at a different part of the restaurant and hoping we’ll be able to get out of this torture as soon as possible.
“Dave, I didn’t think you liked Italian food. What an amazing coincidence!” I say, coming out with the stupidest thing I can think of, just to break the gloomy silence.
“Yeah, amazing,” mutters Al, hunched over his cocktail behind me.
“Haven’t we met before?” Dave asks Al, after observing him more closely.
“I doubt it,” Al replies in a bored voice, “I’m sure I’d remember.”
“I must have confused you with someone else then.”
“So how come you’re here?” I intervene.
“I come here quite often,” explains Dave while still staring at Al in a way I know very well. He’s trying to appear indifferent, but the truth is that he’s feeling challenged and his only desire now is to defeat his enemy and prove his own intellectual superiority.
“Ah, I see – you’re a regular, then.” Of course he is, it would have been weird if he wasn’t. And of course I had to end up in the one restaurant where my boss always has dinner. “It’s the first time I’ve been here, but it looks nice,” I comment, certain that he isn’t listening.
“Excuse me,” says a girl, approaching us with envious eyes. I understand how she’s feeling, it must be hard to accept I am the one sitting there between them. “Is the white car parked outside yours?” she asks Dave.
“No, it’s mine,” replies Al, the corner of his mouth twisting into a wry smile.
“Uh,” she sighs, and I’m guessing she wouldn’t know who to choose between the two men. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get out of my parking space.” She laughs nervously and apologises. “I’m sorry, but I’m just so lame at reversing…”
Pathetic. She really is pathetic. Why doesn’t she just admit that she’s looking for a husband? Wouldn’t that be more honest?
“No problem. Sam, do you mind?” Al asks me, while taking his car keys out of the pocket of his jeans.
“Of course not, I’ll wait for you here.” I let him go and try to look busy by fiddling with my empty glass.
As soon as Al is far enough away, Dave focuses all his attention on me. More specifically, he seems to be very interested in my dress, as he analyses every single detail of it with a surly expression on his face, dismantling the little self-confidence I had built up over the last few weeks. Feeling very confused and insecure, I let him observe me indulgently. He takes his time, seemingly not caring how his behaviour might make me feel. He studies my legs and my neckline, and only after some time does he finally look at my face, noticing my wide open eyes.
> I smile.
He glares back.
“So is he your boyfriend?” he asks, as I open my mouth in the hope of saying something funny.
“Who? Al?” I shake my head. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“But are you dating him?” He insists.
I’d like to say no, but all these questions are starting to get on my nerves. It almost feels like I’m not allowed to have a private life. This is none of his business, and apart from his questions being inappropriate, I really don’t understand why he’s acting so cold all of a sudden. It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong, for God’s sake!
“Yes,” I snap back, folding my arms across my chest.
He wasn’t expecting that. He looks at me in confusion then turns towards the door, probably hoping to see Terry or Jane enter the restaurant, proving that it’s all just been a misunderstanding.
“Is that a problem?” I ask him, summoning up all the courage I can. And believe me – for me, talking back to him is one of the hardest things to do on the planet.
“No,” he says, after a long break. “It’s just that he didn’t look like…”
“Look like what?”
“He doesn’t look like your type.”
“And what would my type be, then?” I ask, despite not being sure that I want to know.
“Well…” he hesitates. The waiter stops him from saying any more, by giving him a bag full of food.
“Here you are, Mr Callaghan. Red chicory rolls, ravioli and roast potatoes with rosemary.”
“Thanks, Oreste. You can put it on my tab.”
“I already did, Sir. Oh, there he is,” he says to Al, who’s walking back over to us and fixing his hoodie. “Your table is ready, would you like to follow me?” he asks us both gently.
“Of course,” I nod, desperate to put at least fifty people between me and the man of my dreams.
“Yep,” Al confirms.
“Well… Have a nice evening, Dave” I say.
“Sure…” He nods towards me and gives Al another look. “You have a nice evening too,” he says while turning his back on me and walking away.
Chapter 17
No Dave Day
“How are things going with the Connard murder?” Tom asks, while inattentively checking his notes. He’s perched on a corner of his desk and all his colleagues are sitting around him. It’s ten in the morning and everybody’s having their usual morning coffee in the meeting room. It’s one of the most important moments of the day, when the biggest stories – the ones the newspaper will probably feature – get selected. And right now, the Mary Connard story is the big one. She’s a woman of thirty-three who found her husband in bed with another woman and killed him by stabbing him twenty-six times in the chest. The authorities apparently found a horrific murder scene, and there was a public outcry at the violence of the crime. The story made headlines in all the newspapers, including The Chronicle, so what’s left to do now is to find out if there have been any developments that are worth reporting, or if it’s better just to write about the elections. “Dave?” says Tom, when he realises nobody has been listening to him.
“What?” Dave replies, evidently distracted, while he tries to stop looking at the door.
“Are there any new developments in the Connard case we need to talk about?”
It’s almost silent in the meeting room, and Dave can hear the other journalists chatting by the coffee machine. Albert, Ben and he’s almost sure he saw Nicholas.
“Dave,” repeats Tom, losing patience at being unable to attract his deputy’s attention.
“Yeah, sorry,” Dave finally mumbles, opening a folder to take a look at it. “The police confirm that the man bled to death yesterday at three in the afternoon,” he reads without much conviction. “The neighbours have confirmed their statements. Hmm…” He ponders while reading his notes. At that moment he hears a laugh which immediately seizes all of his attention. Was that Sam? “I…” he tries to resume, but then gives up, shaking his head. “No, there’s no news on the story. They haven’t announced when the trial is going to start, so maybe we should leave it for now.”
“Okay,” Tom snorts. “In that case, let’s focus on the next thing. Howard, can you take care of it?”
“Sure, I’ll go and write a draft with a couple of quotes,” a slightly balding guy in his late twenties replies while jotting something down in a notepad.
“Okay, let me read them when you’re done,” Tom says to him in a flat, almost weary, voice. It’s not a great time for him – he’s haemorrhaging money because of his divorce and the alimony payments to his ex-wife and he’s had to move into a motel in the suburbs which he’s sharing with a gang of cockroaches. He can’t even remember the last time he rested his head on a pillow without wondering what that strange squeaking sound behind his ear was. “Let’s stick to this schedule then,” he continues to those still in the room. “And we’ll talk again if there’s any update.”
“Should I add those edits to this morning’s accident?” asks Frederic, raising his pencil.
“Yes, but before correcting anything, let Dave read the piece.”
“Okay,” the boy nods while gathering his stuff and putting it in a briefcase. The others leave one by one and return to their cubicles. Tom and Dave are left alone. Tom is still sitting on the corner of his desk, holding his documents. Dave is standing by the window, trying to focus on a few depositions he gathered from the police and the firemen. It’s quite hard though, with all the noise coming from outside.
“Have you talked to Jonathan?”
“No, I haven’t been able to get through to him,” Dave replies, while distractedly checking the corridor. Yes, he’s looking in the same direction again and his eyes always inadvertently end up on the same spot.
“Try calling him again – maybe he knows something,” Tom suggests. “I’m still not 100 per cent convinced that we shouldn’t follow up the murder story, but I want something new to publish.”
“We could go over to the D.A.’s office,” Dave proposes, while playing with a pen.
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea. Send someone over in the afternoon, but let’s not make the same mistake we made last time, okay?”
“Of course not, don’t worry…” While he’s talking, he hears Sam’s voice. This time he’s sure it’s her. She’s kidding around with Ben and possibly flirting with Nicholas. Didn’t she say she couldn’t stand him? Dave loses all his concentration without even realising it and forgets Tom’s question immediately. “Yes, I…” he stammers. “I can ask for a special authorisation for…” At that moment he sees her by chance, as she’s standing only a few steps away from the door; he notices Ben’s hand on her shoulder and that makes him explode. “What the hell, does that seem like professional behaviour to you, though?” he says, throwing his pen down amongst the folders on the desk.
“No, behaving like that isn’t very professional,” replies Tom whilst noisily browsing a few pages.
“How long has she been screwing around in the corridor? Is this what we pay them for?”
“It’s a controversial subject,” The Chronicle’s editor continues without realising that Dave is talking about something else entirely. “He’s not the only one whose career was built on exploiting the taxpayers.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Dave checks the time. “She’s been there over fifteen minutes. This is absolutely not professional. What the hell is going on with her? She wasn’t like this when we hired her!”
“Who are you talking about? Judge Swart?” Tom finally asks. He then follows Dave’s eyes and ends up looking at Sam, who’s chatting with a couple of reporters by the coffee machine. “Errrr… Dave,” he asks abruptly, trying to sound casual, “how is it going with the no women thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that I hope I wasn’t asking ask too much of you after that Walker incident,” he says cautiously.
“Are you joking?” Dave asks sarcastically,
but Tom senses that his reaction is too defensive – he doesn’t trust him when he behaves like that.
Tom starts wondering if that girl in a blue dress by the coffee machine… and her smile… “Who knows,” he wonders.
“If you think I can’t even…” snaps Dave, not sure where Tom’s questions are actually going. “Listen, I promised you I wouldn’t get involved in any relationship until after the elections, and I can assure you that—”
“I know, I know,” Tom stops him from apologising. “I’m not saying you won’t keep your promise.”
“What are you saying then?”
“Nothing, just that I got a weird feeling that maybe…” he says vaguely. “I’m just starting to wonder if you actually might need to get away for some time.”
“Get away from what?”
“From yourself.”
“What do you mean from myself? I don’t follow you. And anyway, what for?”
Tom changes the subject immediately and heads towards the door.
“We’re done here, right?”
“Yes,” Dave replies, frowning.
“Great. In that case, if you don’t mind, I need to rush off. I have a golf match with O’Neil and a lunch with Tony Perez on my schedule,” he explains while checking the time. “Dave…”
“What now?”
“I appreciate your commitment, but try and relax a little. You’re way too tense,” he suggests with a wink just before leaving.
“What the hell do you mean?” Dave says, demanding an explanation, but Tom is already too far away to be able to hear him.
“Oh… Good morning Sam.”
But he’s still not far enough away for Dave to hear him, unfortunately. From the corridor, the editor’s voice reaches the meeting room as clearly as if there weren’t three offices between them.
“Good morning, Mr Mayer.”
“You look absolutely lovely today,” says Tom with unusual gallantry, just as Ben and Nicholas did before him. Sam probably hadn’t been expecting anything like that, so she barely replies. He can’t see her, but Dave can imagine what’s happening very well. He knows all of her expressions and reactions. Her lips bend upwards in a smile, she tilts her head over to one side and two dimples appear on her cheeks. That’s how she always reacts when someone gets too close to her. The scene is so clear in his mind that he could reproduce it in every detail. It’s normal that he’d know, though – they’ve been working together for… how long? Four? Five years? He can’t be sure exactly, but he knows it’s been a long time, because he can’t remember a single day at The Chronicle without her. Sam has always been there, a constant and reassuring presence. So why is she behaving like that now? Dave doesn’t know the answer, but he does start to wonder if perhaps it’s not her who’s the problem. Maybe Tom is right. All these problems, the Fashion Week, Councilman Walker, Madeleine and that stupid bet with Brian are getting under his skin. And it’s been only one month.