Barely Yours

by Charlotte Eve

  “I’m sorry?” I say as I feel myself blushing a deep crimson.

  “I said, have you ever been to France?”

  Oh yeah. I remember now. He was telling me all about his year abroad, at the Sorbonne.

  “No, no,” I reply, “but I’d really love to go. One day. Especially Paris. It always looks so beautiful in the photos.”

  I mean it: I would love to go. And I’d like to go to all the places he’s told me about this evening, too. He’s been to so many amazing far off destinations – practically everywhere on my bucket list. I’m actually kinda jealous. Because I know he’s older than me, but he’s not that much older. And I’m guessing he never had to wait tables at the Dairy Queen to pay for his adventures around the globe.

  I sigh wistfully, thinking about how much money all this travelling is going to cost me. “Sometimes it seems like I’m never gonna get there,” I say quietly.

  “How old are you, Chrissie?” he asks.

  “Twenty two,” I reply.

  “You’re still so young,” he says. “I’m thirty, so of course I’ve been to more places. And I’m sure you will too. There’s still so much time ahead of you.”

  “But it’s not just time, is it?” I reply. “It’s money.”

  Immediately, regret what I’ve just said. I mean, I’ve basically just outright accused him of being a trust fund kid, haven’t I?

  “Money does help,” he admits. “For example, it was good to have an allowance from my parents when I was studying in Paris. However, it wasn’t quite as easy as grabbing Daddy’s credit card and jetting off wherever I wanted. They had very fixed ideas about the kinds of places I should be going, the kinds of experiences I should be having, and let’s just say we didn’t always see eye to eye.”

  He takes a sip of his tea, before continuing.

  “Take Goa, for example,” he says. “I always wanted to visit there.”

  “Me too,” I say, sitting up straight with excitement. “It’s one of the places on my list!”

  “Well, it was on mine too,” he grins. “When I was about your age. But my parents weren’t having any of it. To them, it was a dangerous, dirty place and they made it clear that they certainly weren’t giving me any money to go to a place like that.”

  “So what happened?” I ask, enthralled now in his story.

  “I decided I wasn’t going to let them dictate everything I did, just because they were the ones looking after the money,” he explains. “So, I had to do it all by myself, and I needed money fast. Despite my privileged upbringing, I didn’t have any money of my own. Sure, there was my trust fund – but that came with many strings attached, and anyway, I wasn’t even allowed to touch it until I turned twenty five. I didn’t have any capital, but I had been a diligent student at school, and I knew a thing or two about computers. So, I did a bit of research, and that’s how I formed my first company – a software firm. It didn’t make too much money at first, but it was more than enough to get me to Goa. Which I did, by the way, without telling my parents where I’d gone.”

  At this, he gives me a wink, and I can’t help but smile at the image of him – my age, running away like that.

  “My parents were livid when they found out,” he continues.

  “I’ll bet,” I say.

  “But when I told them how I’d got the money to fund my travels, and showed them my projected earnings over the next five years, they were begrudgingly impressed. And when I sold that company five years later for a handsome amount, I had more than enough to go anywhere I wanted in the world.”

  I guess I was wrong about him, I think. I thought he had everything handed to him on a plate, but I can see now that that isn’t true. He’s driven, and judging by the places he’s been in the world, we’ve got so much in common. He would be the perfect guy for me – too bad he’s my boss.

  Suddenly, the beautiful old mahogany grandfather clock in the corner of the room strikes out a series of long, deep notes.

  “Wow,” I say, glancing over at it and clocking the time. “Midnight already? I didn’t realise we’d been talking for so long!”

  “I guess we must have lost track of time,” he says, shifting his weight a little on the sofa as if he’s about to stand up.

  And all of a sudden I just instinctively know that, like Cinderella, at the stroke of midnight I have to leave. The conversation – the night – is over.

  “I’d better go,” I smile, “before the buses stop running ...”

  He looks at me, with a mixture of concern and confusion. “Buses?” he asks. “What are you talking about? I’m not having you running around on public transport at this hour! Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll call my car service.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking one final look around the sumptuous room, filled with generation upon generation of no-doubt priceless heirlooms, as I realize that practically nobody in Will’s entire family has probably ever used a bus in their entire lives.

  “Excuse me one moment,” he says, quickly pushing himself off the sofa and dashing out of the room.

  I get to my feet, too, waiting for him to return. Moments later he’s back, and as he helps me into my coat like a perfect gentleman, once again intoxicating me with that delicious scent of his cologne, I find myself praying for just a few more minutes – hoping against hope the car will be delayed and give me just a few more minutes in his company.

  But God’s doesn’t seem to be listening to me tonight, because what seems like seconds later, Will’s phone discreetly buzzes and he checks the screen then announces that my car is waiting outside.

  He shows me to the front door, and then we pause for a moment, only inches away from each other, the proximity forcing me to notice all over again just how damn tall he is, as I look up to meet those deep dark eyes. There’s this crazy silence between us which suddenly feels charged with meaning, and it actually kinda scares me a little, it’s so intense, so I scramble to fill it.

  “I’ve had a really great first week,” I blurt out, sounding like some silly kid.

  “Thank you,” Will says simply but it’s like there’s something behind his words, too – something in the building tension between us, something in the way his eyes stay locked onto mine.

  Yep, there it is again: that meaningful silence as we gaze at each other, not quite sure where we stand, two people who only a few days ago were complete strangers to each other and are now ... what exactly?

  But then the weirdest thing happens. It’s like the world slows right down as Will moves his face toward mine, and I push up onto tiptoes to meet him, and as I take another deep breath of his cologne, our lips touch – so, so gently – for one, two, three, four, five seconds ... And then it’s over.

  We look at each other, and while I might be a little spaced out sometimes, I know I’ve not imagined this. Yep. There’s definitely something between us – something unmistakeable. Something primal. Something that neither of us can quite control.

  I can feel it, and Will must be able to, too.

  We were meant to meet. I just know it.

  I’m lost in his eyes, lost this moment.

  And then he breaks the pulsing heady silence to say, “You’re a great employee. I’ll see you Monday.”

  The radio burbles away in the background, and I’m rushing around the kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast of toast and eggs and bacon, coffee and milk and orange juice. The staff have all got the morning off, so it’s just me and Tabby. A simple Saturday morning breakfast, before our walk to the park. It’s our little routine and I love it. It makes everything seem so wonderfully normal – if only just for one morning.

  Right now, Tabby’s sitting at the table, simultaneously drawing and prattling away happily, like little girls do, telling herself stories: “And then, the mouse who is also a ballerina put on a very, very pretty pink dress and it was the best and everybody said she was the most prettiest ballerina of them all!”

  “That’s a nice story, darling,” I say
with a grin.

  Tabby nods, her tongue stuck out of her mouth in concentration as she continues draw. “Chrissie taught it to me,” she explains innocently. “I like Chrissie, Daddy. She’s very nice.”

  “Yes, darling,” I say quietly. “I like her too.”

  Chrissie. All the thoughts of last night come flooding back, rushing into my head. The doorstep. The look. The kiss.

  God damn it.

  I’m such a fool. I knew I felt something for her, yet I hired her anyway. And now Tabby’s fallen so deeply in love with her, and just it’s too late to fire her.

  Christ, man. Why didn’t you listen to your intellect for once?

  And there’s something else, too, isn’t there? Just like Tabby, I’m falling for her.

  But how can I be?

  It’s too soon – far too soon since Emma. My beautiful wife. The woman I promised to love, forever. How can I betray our vows? Her memory? She’s been gone only three years. I thought I could never feel anything for another woman, yet slowly but surely I can feel something stirring, something awakening inside me. Something I need to shut down.

  Just then the toaster clicks and the strong smell of burnt toast hits me. I hold back a curse, not wanting to accidentally teach Tabby any bad words.

  This is crazy. You need to pull yourself together. Come on man, you’ve got a double first from Oxford and a PhD from the Sorbonne. You can make breakfast for your daughter.

  So I slice some more bread and push it into the toaster, determined this time around to shake these distracting thoughts from my head.

  “Daddy?” chimes Tabby, just then. “Can we go and see Chrissie today?”

  “No, honey,” I say. “Not today. You’ll see her on Monday though.”

  “Promise?” she says.

  “Promise,” I say, placing the fresh round of buttered toast in front of her and ruffling her soft, blonde hair.

  I’ll see her Monday, too, I think. But it will be on a strictly professional level. The crazy adolescent crush I have on this girl needs to stop. For the sake of my daughter. For the memory of Emma.

  It has to stop.

  Stupid girl! Stupid silly thoughtless girl!

  How could I ever think he wanted me? How could I possibly think that there was actually something between us, that a guy like him would ever want anything to do with a stupid unsophisticated kid like me?

  I bet right now he’s probably out having brunch with one of his rich glamorous socialite girlfriends, laughing about the silly nanny who’s got a crush on him. Laughing about the silly nanny who won’t stop mooning over him.

  The cringe-worthy scene replays over and over in my head like a nightmare: the tight lipped smile and cold business-like way he said to me, You’re a great employee. I’ll see you Monday.

  God. He must have been so embarrassed when I looked up at him, all puppy dog eyes. I was like an open book: so freaking obvious. My emotions were all over my damn face.

  I mean, it’s not like I’ve been dating hundreds of English men. I bet a kiss on the lips – what is it they call it? A ‘peck’? That’s right. I bet a peck on the lips like that is a perfectly normal goodnight. I mean, sure, I’ve kissed Brian like that haven’t I? But no ... not like that.

  I’ve never felt anything quite like that before.

  Anger and confusion and hurt and rejection all rise up in me at once, competing for space in my head, until there’s nothing for it: I scrub harder, hard as I possibly can, attacking the grime on this bath like it’s all the negative emotions coursing through me and if I just scrub hard enough I can scrub them right away.

  You see, when I’m angry or sad or worried, there’s only one thing for it. I clean. Like a maniac. Not that it makes any difference in this disgusting house, of course, not when I’m living with someone as crazy untidy as Magenta. But still, I give it my best shot, scrubbing and scrubbing like there’s no tomorrow.

  But despite my best efforts, a moment later I’m snapped out of my scrubbing trance by the insistent buzz of my phone. I don’t really feel like speaking to anyone at the moment, I just feel like ignoring it, but a quick glance at the display tells me it’s Brian and I just can’t resist.

  “Bri,” I say, picking up the call, and before he can even say hello, it all comes rushing out of my mouth in a mad crazy cascade of words. “What does it mean when a guy kisses you on the lips? Not like, a kiss kiss, not like, with tongues, but more like – you know – when a guy kisses you on the cheek? Like that, but on the lips? Oh wait, and it goes on for like five seconds? Like just a little bit too long? What does that mean?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Brian laughs in my ear. “Hold your horses. Kiss? Lips? You’re talking a thousand miles an hour and making no sense. What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning,” I reply a little sheepishly.

  “So it’s serious,” Brian laughs. “You’ve got to be stopped! Let me take you for brunch and you can tell me all about it ...”

  §

  I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until the waitress places my plate of eggs and salmon in front of me.

  “Oh my god,” I gasp. “Food! I’ve only just realized that I skipped dinner last night.”

  “Oh, Chrissie,” Brian sighs. “This is serious, isn’t it? Okay, first of all, no it is not totally normal for your boss of a whole seven days to kiss you on the lips like that, at his doorstep, at midnight. Nope. That is not what British men do. And secondly, I seriously doubt he’s laughing at you right now. You’re a beautiful young woman and I’ll bet that he wanted nothing more than to totally ravage you, right there and then on his doorstep, okay?”

  “Shut up,” I say through clenched teeth, trying to keep the grin off my face. “That’s not funny.”

  “Oh come on,” Brian continues. “You know it’s true. I’ll bet you any money that it was only the thought of his darling daughter asleep in bed upstairs that stopped him from having you right there and then.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me afterwards. It was as if the guy I’d just spent an amazing evening with vanished and was suddenly replaced by this block of ice.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Brian says with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve had guys freeze on me too. But that’s usually after I’ve been to bed with them.”

  “I just feel totally humiliated,” I sigh. “I know, I know. I’ll be fine. I’ll get over it. But I guess I just want to wallow in a little self pity first, just for today.”

  “Okay,” Brian grins. “How about I give you two hours to bemoan your tragic love life or lack thereof to your hearts content, but after that you’re taking me shopping. Deal?”

  He holds up his coffee cup.

  “Deal,” I say, clinking my coffee against his.

  It’s Friday evening. Again. Another long week has rushed by, and once more I find myself having a pot of tea with Chrissie. Strictly professionally, of course. I’ve wanted to find out how she’s been getting on with Tabby. I’m a concerned father and I want to be reassured that she’s happy.

  No funny business this time, I tell myself.

  And just to make sure nothing happens, I’m sitting as far away from her as is humanly possible without looking rude.

  “She’s just got this crazy imagination,” Chrissie says, as she continues expounding on Tabitha’s many good points. “The things she comes out with!”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” I reply with a laugh. “I’m her proud father, remember? Of course I think I’m raising a genius!”

  “Sure, why not,” Chrissie says. “She might well be a genius. The imagination she’s got, I bet she’ll win the Nobel prize one day!”

  Although Chrissie is the same bright, funny, engaging girl I sat here with last Friday night, I it doesn’t take much to tell that she’s on her guard tonight too.

  Sitting there in the plush mustard armchair, back straight, legs clad in black skinny jeans, knees pressed pr
imly together, hands tucked demurely in her lap, chestnut hair tumbling over her crisp white t-shirt, it’s like she’s somehow alert – as if expecting I might ask her to leave any minute.

  “Oh, look at the time!” she says, brightly, just as I’m thinking it. “I’ve really got to be going. It’s my turn to cook dinner for my roommate, Magenta, tonight. And even though she’s totally rude and crazy, and will probably hate what I’m cooking anyway, I’d better make a move ...”

  “Rude and crazy?” I ask, my interest piqued. “How so?”

  Suddenly something changes in her. She tenses up and starts talking a thousand miles an hour, her tanned hands gesticulating madly as she talks. “She’s completely crackers!” she exclaims. “She hates everything I do. Nothing’s ever good enough. She uses all of my makeup and all of my bath stuff – even the really expensive stuff my mom sent especially as a Christmas present for me? And she plays her dreadful repetitive dance music at all hours. And, oh my god, she’s so untidy. I mean, no wonder we’ve got rats. She leaves food lying around everywhere ...”

  “Whoa, stop right there,” I say, holding up a hand. “Did you say rats?”

  I can’t quite believe what Chrissie is saying.

  “Yep, you heard correct,” she says. “Rats. It’s so gross. At first it was just mice, and I thought that was bad. But these critters? Ugh! They’re huge.”

  “My god,” I exclaim. “What are you still doing living there? If there are rats, you need to move out, immediately.”

  “God, I’d love to,” she replies with a shrug, “but it’s just ... the money, you know? Renting in London is insanely expensive and this place is really affordable.”

  Poor Chrissie. I can’t believe I’ve been so insensitive. After all, I know how privileged I am, and how unusual an upbringing like mine is.

  “You should have said something,” I urge her gently. “Because if it’s a matter of money, then please don’t worry about it. I’ll increase your salary. How much more a month would you need to move into a better place?”