Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

by Alexander, Carly

  Touched that he remembered my collection, I pulled on my clothes, switching to a thick woolen sweater over my cotton turtleneck. “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind lounging in bed for awhile. Maybe till, like, noon tomorrow?”

  “You always want to lounge. That’s the problem with you Americans. Couch potatoes, the whole lot of you.”

  “Don’t be jealous because we know how to relax.” I pulled on a pillbox hat lined with faux fur and moved up on my tiptoes to kiss him.

  “Ah, you’ve got it all wrong, woman. True relaxation comes after exertion.”

  I giggled. “I love the way you talk. Igg-ZAIR-shun. You’re so sexy.”

  “You fancy that?” He pulled my hat down over my ears. “Well, keep listening, woman. I get sexier as the night wears on.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said as we headed down the corridor. Since the day we’d met I’d enjoyed these mock arguments with Ian—little exchanges in which he muscled his way around me, showing off with endearing male bravado.

  We went out through the main lobby, our boots clanking over the shiny flagstone floors. Mrs. Newington bustled around the cut-out reception desk, setting out candles beside the red and white poinsettias. “Dinner is almost ready,” she told us. “Cook has made a lovely stuffed goose with chestnut stuffing. We’ll be serving until seven, so don’t be late.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mrs. Newington,” Ian said. He pushed the door open, and jingle bells chimed.

  “It’s like Holiday Inn,” I said, thinking of the charming old movie.

  “Or Fawlty Towers,” he teased. “I keep expecting to see Basil flying out of a door.”

  “No, more like Christmas in Connecticut.”

  “You really are a Christmas buff, aren’t you?” Ian teased as we hopped off the low porch.

  “You would know that if you hadn’t bailed out on me last Christmas.” I jumped off the porch into the snow.

  “Oh, luv, can we not go there now? It’s too beautiful an evening to begin Ian-bashing.”

  Last Christmas had been a rough one. Dad had been sick—I didn’t even realize how sick, since he didn’t tell anyone about his diagnosis until the new year—and Ian had promised to fly to San Francisco with me, but had to cancel at the last minute because of business demands. The holiday season had gone off on a sour note, and I had blamed it on Ian, though it probably had more to do with the fact that my father was failing.

  But Ian was right, I thought as I held out my hands to catch snowflakes. At the moment it wouldn’t do any good to bring up the stumbling blocks in our past. Right now I wanted to focus on the present and future of our relationship.

  Snow was still falling, though the air seemed surprisingly warm and still, as if time were suspended for this magical evening. The ground was covered with crispy, white fluff, and I ran over to a bush and tried to make a snowball to throw at him, but the snow was too dry to stick together.

  “Damn! And I was going to show off my pitching arm,” I said, brushing the snow off my hands.

  Ian put his hands on my shoulders, sliding them down to squeeze my biceps. “Hmm. If you’re nice to me I’ll give you another chance to test the limits of your physical stamina later.” He leaned down and kissed me, catching my lips lightly with his tongue.

  In a rush of emotion, I reached up and put my arms over his shoulders. I wanted to hold him forever, afraid that if my fingers slipped away I would lose him.

  He ended the kiss and pressed his smooth cheek against mine. “Now there’s a bear hug. Squeeze any harder and I may need to be revived, luv.”

  “It’s just that . . .” I wasn’t sure how to say it, and before I could stop myself the raw words slipped out. “It’s just that I love you so much, Ian. I don’t think I’ve every felt this way about anyone. I love you.”

  Ian blinked. “I love you, too.” He kissed me lightly, then took my arm and led me down the path, as if it frightened him to stop and linger in the revelation of our deepest feelings.

  “Are we in a hurry to get somewhere?” I asked. “Or did I scare you back there when I brought up the ‘L’ word?”

  “Scared me to death,” he said. “Don’t you know that men hate to get in touch with their feelings? From the time we’re wee lads we’re taught to run from emotions, fast and furious.”

  “Not you, Ian,” I said. “You don’t strike me as a man who’s afraid of anything.”

  “Believe me, there’s plenty out there that scares me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Being destitute. You know, I grew up in a small village outside Glasgow, and back in the seventies the city was still an abyss of unemployment and economic depression. I saw my own father line up for one job after another, only to come home with nothing. All the good intentions in the world couldn’t buy a man a job back then. It was no wonder he left us for the States.”

  “Your father went to the U.S. for work?”

  He nodded. “Aye, and that was the last I saw of him, not that he could help it. He got work as a carpenter’s apprentice in Boston, and sent home his check. He wanted me to join him, but Mum wouldn’t hear of it, as I was yet a lad. Going on twelve years.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  “He worked in Boston, just shy of two years; then he had some sort of attack. He died in hospital there. Someday I’m going there to look up his grave, in a city plot. It’s sad when a man works hard all his life and doesn’t have a few pounds for his own burial.”

  “It is sad,” I agreed, wondering if Ian had avoided dealing with my father’s death because it brought up these memories for him. Geez, I’d tried to embark on a little chat about our future together and instead Ian’s rusty can of issues had popped open. Abandonment, fear of poverty . . . These were not topics that I could gloss over in favor of discussing our future. I wanted to tell Ian about my job interview at the museum in London, but at the moment it seemed wise to wait.

  “Well,” I said, “I have to say, you must have worked hard to overcome your circumstances. Look at your success in television! Millions of people enjoy your shows, all over the world.”

  He nodded. “I was lucky to get a break now and again. And we both know I am a marketing genius,” he said with a wicked grin.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And I’ve worked bloody hard at it,” he added. “Which reminds me.” He tipped his face down to me, his blue eyes earnest. “I’m going to have to take care of a spot of work on Christmas Eve. I know it sounds monstrous, but it can’t be avoided.”

  “What?” I could feel the crankiness seeping into my own voice. “Where? All the way back in London?”

  “No, not that far. I’ll work out of the Edinburgh office that day. Not to worry, luv. It will be only for a few hours.”

  “But on Christmas Eve,” I shook my head, truly beginning to despise Ian’s job, despite the glamour of dating an international producer.

  “Yes, it sucks, I know,” Ian admitted. “Especially when it means saying goodbye to you.”

  As he kissed me on the forehead, I decided to let it go for now, figuring that, by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, I would be able to talk him out of going. Maybe he could phone it in for the day? I would use my powers of persuasion... when the time came.

  Over the next few days, Ian opened up to me in small ways as we hit most of the traditional tourist sights of the Edinburgh area—the castles, the alleyways of the historic Old Town, the lovely squares and terraces of the New Town. Each morning as we went for a country walk along the quaint lanes around the inn, he would tell me something he remembered about his father. And each afternoon, the local sights opened up other memories for him.

  By the time darkness fell we rarely left the inn, instead choosing to have dinner down by the inn’s hearth, then retiring to the cozy sitting area where Mrs. Newington served us little glasses of scotch whiskey to keep us warm through the night. Between the scotch and the warm man in bed beside me, I was never bothered by t
he chilly drafts that whistled in through the windows.

  As we toured the ruins of Hadrian’s Wall, Ian waxed philosophical about what he would like to leave behind in the world. “Certainly not a fucking wall of ruins,” he said, lifting his boot to a boulder.

  After a matinee in Edinburgh, he took me to the Royal Mile for an early dinner. As we ate Singaporean satay and sipped plum wine, he told me of the summers when he had worked as a stagehand in Edinburgh’s Fringe Festival, his first job in show business. Those were the salad days, when he lived in a squalid attic apartment far outside town with three other teenage boys. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life,” he said, “but I did know that I didn’t want to follow the dead-end path that my father took. If I was going to survive, I needed to take the high road.”

  Another afternoon we went to Glasgow for afternoon tea at the Willow Tearoom, followed by a trip to the Burrell Collection. Here, surrounded by their fine collection of medieval furniture, Impressionist paintings, and Chinese porcelain, I was truly in my element, and I was happy to see how much Ian appreciated the collection. Why is it that European men are raised to understand art, unlike their American counterparts, who seem to think that museums were built for women, school groups, and sissy artists donning berets?

  As we viewed the collection, I told Ian about the fierce competition among some Impressionist artists.

  “Matisse and Picasso were rivals throughout their careers,” I said. “You wouldn’t know of the turbulence from the tranquility of most of these paintings, but the early European Impressionists like Degas and Monet were rebels. They wanted to defy the realist style prescribed by government-sponsored exhibits. That’s why you see everyday subjects, like that mother kissing a baby, or those flowers in a field. These painters turned away from the classical and romantic themes of the times, and instead tried to capture the intimacy of the commonplace world around them.”

  Ian nodded slowly as he absorbed the paintings. “Yes, yes, I see what you mean. This all makes so much more sense now,” he said quietly.

  Moving on to the Chinese porcelain exhibit, I pointed out some of the symbols on the vases and plates—the dragons, flowers, and clouds—and explained their meaning to the emperors who commissioned the pieces.

  “I do believe your talents are wasted in that trendy downtown gallery you work in,” Ian told me. “You’re overqualified to be holding artists’ hands and popping champagne corks at their bloody openings.”

  “I know.” My heart began to beat a little faster as I realized that it was time to tell him my news. “That’s why I’m looking to move elsewhere. I put in an application at the Hampstead Museum in London, and they want to see me! They’re interviewing me next week.”

  His eyes opened wide. “You’re kidding! This is wonderful news, luv.” He took my hand, pulled me into his arms and nuzzled my ear with his nose. “I was wondering how we were going to work things out in the new year. I can’t bear living apart from you this way.”

  I swooned against him, thrilled to hear him say the words. Over the next few days there would be a few more momentous words spoken, but I had to remind myself to be patient and to enjoy this moment, too. In my mind was the image of that velvet ring box, and I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of engagement ring Ian had chosen for me. Was it a marquis diamond? A pear-shaped stone? A simple but elegant solitaire?

  He lifted me off my feet and swung me around the gallery. “Oh, we’re going to have a good time together, Madison. You must get that position in London. Use me as a reference if you like. I’ll assure them that you’re multitalented, indeed.”

  “I may just take you up on that,” I said. “Just be sure you stick with the multitalented line. Best not to slip and say multiorgasmic.”

  “Ooh, good point.” He covered his mouth, winking. “I’ll make a note of that.”

  22

  “Calton Hill is definitely worth the climb,” Ian said.

  “But I’ll try to take it slow for you. You Yanks are lightweights when it comes to walking. When I was a lad growing up outside Glasgow, I went everywhere on foot. Running, half the time.”

  “I can walk,” I protested. “You forget, I’m a New Yorker. We walk almost everywhere. And when you live in an apartment, you have to carry your food and drink on your back.”

  “I thought you had groceries delivered by that market on the corner?” he said.

  Ooh, busted. “Well, sometimes. But usually I go out, hunting and gathering on my own two feet.”

  “And lovely feet they are,” Ian teased as we hiked to the east end of Princes Street.

  “Amazing that there’s this untouched hill right in the middle of Edinburgh,” I said.

  “But barely,” he said. “There was some drivel about installing an amusement park on the hill, but the locals managed to squash it. Good thing. The hill is historic, with some monuments dating from the Enlightenment. It’s a true signature of Edinburgh.”

  “Really?” I tightened my scarf against the cold and snuggled against Ian. “Have you ever thought of doing a show based on Calton Hill? Maybe a race. Take the challenge!”

  He snickered. “No, but there’s an interesting graveyard up ahead that I’d love to do a piece on—at Greyfriars Kirk. It’s said to be haunted by a little Skye terrier. For fourteen years that dog guarded the grave of his master. Man’s best friend, indeed.”

  I squeezed his arm. “I like to think that a woman is a man’s best friend.”

  “Ahh, woman, don’t you know that you’re a man’s downfall? You have total power over us. We can’t resist your charms.”

  I laughed. “Total power, at last,” I said. “Let’s see, I’ll conquer Calton Hill today, the world tomorrow.”

  “I’ve no doubt you could do it,” Ian said, his blue eyes twinkling, “no doubt at all.”

  As we rose, the city of Edinburgh fell away around us, looking pristine and sleepy under its blanket of snow. The hill wasn’t too steep, but I suddenly remembered the aerobic factor of steadily climbing upwards. We were clocking in the equivalent of major points on the Stairmaster. Off to one side, on a distant hill, I recognized Edinburgh Castle, brown and formidable on its bed of dark rock. From another side of the hill Ian pointed out Holyrood, then Arthur’s Seat, the Firth of Forth, and the New Town, which we’d visited a few times.

  The flat, snowy hilltop was marked by a classical monument, twelve white columns that rose toward the expansive gray sky like the ruins of the Parthenon. “What’s this?” I asked, venturing over to the pillars.

  “It was going to be a monument to those who died in the Napoleonic Wars, but funding ran out before the builders could finish.”

  I went over to the monument and sat in a dry patch of its rock base. “Whew! We really earned our supper today.” My thoughts clicked ahead to our cozy evening at the inn. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we exchange gifts tonight? It seems silly to wait until Christmas Day, especially with you having to work on Christmas Eve.”

  Ian reached down and tugged my scarf playfully. “Oh, that’s your logic, is it?”

  “What? It makes total sense!” I insisted.

  He shook his head. “I’m too smart for the likes of you, woman. And how do you even know I’ve brought you a gift?”

  I folded my arms.

  “Oh, okay, I’ve got something for you, luv, but don’t push me.” He crouched down and planted a kiss on my lips. “No reason to rush.”

  I leaned back and took in a deep breath of fresh air and dramatic sky. Ian was right; there was no reason to hurry. There was always tomorrow.

  That night after dinner, I slid under the bed quilt and propped up my book, too exhausted to think about moving. Every muscle in my body ached a little, but it felt divine to sink into the feather mattress knowing I didn’t have to do a single thing.

  “Are you retiring for the night then?” Ian put his hands on his hips. “Did you in, did I?”

  “You do me in every day, honey,” I
teased. “Sometimes more than once.”

  “Well, guess I’m out of luck for a snuggle.”

  I smiled. “Come here.”

  He came over to the bed and kissed my forehead. Then he kicked off his shoes and crawled under the covers, resting his head on my abdomen.

  Looking down at him, I felt a tremor of emotion for this man who could be so edgy and funny and vulnerable at the same time. I raked back his hair with my fingers, tracing the neat “V” at the nape of his neck, the line of hair at his collar, the delicate shell of his ear.

  He ran a hand over my lower abdomen, stroking gently, evoking a feeling of contentment.

  “It’s noisy in there,” he remarked, turning his head to look up at me. “Let’s have a listen and see what the stomach thinks of dinner.”

  “Ian!” I grasped his hair and gave a gentle shake. “Leave my stomach alone.”

  “No, wait!” he said, pressing his ear to my stomach again. “It’s not the stomach at all, it’s the more female regions. Ovaries and the like. I believe they’re sending me a message.”

  I sucked in my breath. He was veering dangerously close to delicate territory.

  He rubbed lower, and I felt my abdomen tighten as he approached a sensitive area. “Yes,” he said, “I hear the ovaries crying out to me. Help! Help! We want to make a baby!”

  “Ian.” I didn’t want to joke about this. “I’m on the Pill. We talked about that.”

  “I know.” He lifted his head and faced me, but his hand still covered my abdomen, moving gently. “Have you ever thought of going off?”

  “I . . . I’ve always been very careful,” I admitted. “Getting pregnant . . . it’s not the sort of mistake I want to make.”

  “Right, but I’m not talking about a mistake. I’m talking about the two of us making a baby. Wouldn’t that be amazing?” His blue eyes were so earnest, I felt myself tearing up. “We could do it, Madison. You and I.”

  I felt incredibly moved and very sexy at the same time. Suddenly, the ache of my muscles was nothing compared to the ache in my groin, the need to have Ian, the desire to let him quench the cries of my shrieking ovaries. Oh, I knew that it wouldn’t happen today or tomorrow, but once he proposed and our wedding was in the works . . . Well, I could go off the Pill on the next cycle and ...