<><><>
Lorie showed up exactly on time bringing a choice of six dresses and two pairs of shoes she hoped would fit (Naomi’s feet were half a size smaller). She stayed until Naomi was zipped into the chosen black dress and was standing, shoes on, in front of the mirror. Lorie had applied Naomi’s makeup, painted her nails and fixed her up with some swinging sparkly earrings.
‘I’m not taking my necklace off,’ Naomi said. ‘I can’t.’
‘This is a special occasion.’
‘Not special enough.’
Lorie presented a couple of options anyway. ‘This one would look really good.’
Naomi shook her head. ‘I’ve never taken it off. I’m not going to start now.’
Lorie put it back in her bag. ‘You’re the boss.’
With twenty minutes to spare, they set about Naomi’s long dark hair. Lorie used her skill of curling it with straighteners. After only ten minutes it was parted in the centre and fell spectacularly into big curls at the bottom. Lorie backcombed it and set it with spray. A few jets of perfume later, Naomi was ready for the catwalk.
‘A-ma-zing, darling,’ Lorie said, Craig Revel Horwood style. They stood side by side in the mirror. They were almost exactly the same height and shape, which, for clothes-swapping purposes had come in handy more times than Naomi could count. ‘Go knock ‘em dead.’
<><><>
Luckily for Annabel, Will Barton was actually sitting on Naomi’s table that night in a pale grey shirt edged charcoal on the collar, and a slim black tie. It turned out that he’d never touched a double bass in his life, but was a cellist. He looked almost Spanish, everything dark right down to the neat hedge of thick black eyebrows, Mediterranean-coloured skin to match. He was kind of exotic in a way that impressed all the girls. He did nothing for Naomi. His army of followers flocked to hug him and take pictures. Cameras and phones were busy while they waited for the main course, making it easy for Naomi to get Annabel’s picture without Will even noticing. It was a good one too. Naomi grinned as she tucked her phone under the table and sent the picture to Annabel.
At her left side, all elbows and bare freckled arms, sat Siobhan. She’d dressed in a long black skirt and a black short-sleeved top with some sequins edging the neckline. Her only bit of colour was a long row of pale blue beads that picked up the colour of her shoes. She was so stiff and still, it was as though she’d taken root in the chair. Naomi felt obliged to divide her time between trying to talk to Siobhan and having easy chats with Madeline on her other side. But as time passed, Madeline became too drunk and stupid for small talk. So Naomi focussed on Siobhan, finding that after a week of exhausting one another’s bank of personal details, there was only the food left to talk about.
‘So you like him?’ she asked, rotating a wedding ring she wore on her right hand, which had been her grandmother’s. It dug into her finger so fiercely it seemed a miracle she could turn it. Naomi was surprised, pleasantly. Siobhan didn’t take the initiative with conversation very often.
‘What? Who?’ Naomi asked.
She followed Siobhan’s deathly gaze towards Will who was downing a whole glass of something blue without stopping. The empty glass brought a ripple of applause from his female fans, who handed him another one.
‘Oh no, not me. My sister spotted him last week. The picture was for her.’
‘He’s probably going to drown tonight, so he is.’
Naomi laughed. Siobhan didn’t.
‘Do you like him?’ Naomi asked, for something to say.
Siobhan closed her invisible eyelashes together and shook her head of bushy hair. ‘No, no, no. My mammy and daddy would kill me if I rolled home with that.’
Naomi laughed again. Siobhan turned to Naomi with confusion in her eyes. ‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing. No, I agree,’ Naomi babbled, wondering how she’d managed to offend Siobhan. ‘Seriously, my mum would do the same.’
‘Right, OK.’ Siobhan seemed satisfied. She pointed her gaze table-ward again and despite the party atmosphere, one of their awkward silences began, made worse by the general euphoria going on everywhere else.
Cutting it short, Naomi said, ‘I think I’ll nip to the bathroom.’
Naomi stood and smoothed her dress and cast her eyes around. Beyond the restaurant was a bar, dense with bodies.
‘Toilet’s near the bar,’ Siobhan said in a monotone in that heavy Irish accent of hers. Naomi was getting used to it and needed to interpret into English less and less.
‘Thanks.’
Naomi gathered her phone and her small bag and set off, glad to be free of forced chat. A piano was being played somewhere, dinner-jazz style. She pictured a highly polished black or white grand and from the brightness of the tone, maybe a Yamaha. Above the drone of countless conversations, she picked out an impressive account of Gershwin’s Summertime. Because improvising was at the opposite end of Naomi’s musical experience of religiously obeying notes, time values and performance directions, it impressed her a lot.
She turned a corner. At one end of the bar on a tall chrome stool, a guy sat alone wearing dark trousers and a cream shirt with square black cuff links. She couldn’t not watch him as she walked towards him. The ladies’ toilets were directly behind him. In front of him sat an empty slim glass with a rough chunk of ice and a slice of lemon.
He was nearly in profile as she approached. Naomi, with some fascination, watched his generous lips move as he spoke into his phone and stroked the glass with his free hand. She’d never wanted to be a phone or a glass before then. He glanced up and caught her eye, looked down, did a double-take. He was staring intently at her now. It was fleeting. He half smiled, then dropped his eyes to his glass and carried on his conversation without further eye contact.
By the time Naomi had reached the toilet and closed the door, her legs wouldn’t work properly. She replayed the double-take and the smile half a dozen times as she mindlessly used the toilet and stumbled to the row of gleaming sinks to wash her hands. Two giggling girls were applying makeup, faces buried in the mirror. Naomi was barely aware of them.
Did she smile back at him, she wondered? She couldn’t be sure. She was certain about one thing: he was insanely gorgeous. He had short mid-brown hair, waxed, five o’clock shadow, perfectly proportioned features. She hoped he wasn’t short. Did it matter, for goodness’ sake?
She dried her hands and touched up her lip colour, anxious to get out of the toilets and also not ready to go. She hesitated, thinking things through. She didn’t want to return to Siobhan while her heart was racing with the anticipation of some ridiculous hope centred around a guy she didn’t know and who might not even be sitting where she’d last seen him, and might be single, or not. Should she walk past him as if he hadn’t just thrown her off course? No. She couldn’t open a conversation with him either, so she settled on getting a drink and not looking at him at all.
After a lingering sideways glance in the mirror, finding everything intact, she shook her fingers through her hair, picked up her bag and phone, took a deep breath and yanked open the door. There he was, close, peering over his shoulder at her. Her steps faltered with the shock. He returned his gaze to the bar. Naomi took two steps forward and felt the pull of his presence.
She made it to the bar and stood a couple of metres to his right, holding herself rigidly, ensuring her stomach was sucked flat in the black dress. She was aware of her breathing as she sensed the heat of his eyes. Her pulse was erratic, thoughts jumbled. Her phone was still loose in her hand. She put it down for something to do. Both girls behind the bar were busy. Naomi followed them closely as if her only reason for being there was to win their attention as soon as possible.
He stood up. She flicked him what she hoped was a neutral look. He was tall. Very tall. And broad and slim and hotter than she’d remembered in the bathroom. Keep calm, Naomi. Weirdly devastated that he was leaving, she also knew she’d let him go. She didn’t have the guts to take her all-to-nothi
ng shot. Her legs had about frozen. He didn’t leave. He moved to her side, placed an elbow on the bar and called to one of the girls who immediately darted over, smiling.
Naomi faced him, not sure she could speak.
‘What can I get you?’
She cleared her throat and used the bar for support. ‘Just orange juice, with ice . . . please.’
The bartender waited for the rest. ‘Nothing for me,’ he said. She nodded and efficiently set about the job. ‘Are you here with someone?’ he asked her. Even his voice had an impact. Used to analysing texture and timbre, she weighed the tone quality and the way he’d emphasised with. His accent was unremarkable. Northern without any harsh edges. Nicely pronounced vowel sounds, not typical Mancunian, what Camilla would call well-spoken.
‘Only my whole uni year,’ Naomi said, face colouring. ‘It’s the end of Freshers’ week. Everyone’s hammered already.’
He smiled. ‘And you’re hitting the orange juice?’
Her face was burning. She couldn’t look directly at him. ‘I know it sounds lame, but I don’t drink.’
‘Not at all?’
‘Not really.’
‘Any reason?’
‘It tastes foul.’
He laughed. ‘For different reasons than you, I don’t drink either.’
‘Really?’ It didn’t occur to her until later to ask why.
He nodded. ‘It’s not lame, but it’s uncommon. You must be the only one.’
‘Actually, the friend I came with isn’t really into it much either. The others have left us behind tonight. About every half hour they hit a new level. We must look excruciatingly boring, the two of us sitting there, deadpan. It’d help if she had a sense of humour.’
Naomi felt an immediate tug of guilt, until another glance told her she’d drawn his smile again, and then it was impossible not to feel good.
‘So I’m guessing you thought you’d escape for a few minutes?’
‘Pretty much,’ she laughed. ‘I needed time out.’ The bartender brought the drink and announced an extortionate price for it. By the time Naomi had fumbled about in her bag for her purse, he’d noiselessly paid up.
Embarrassed and flustered, she tried to look at him and found she couldn’t. ‘Thanks.’
‘No worries. I remember being where you are now. It was terrifying being away from home, meeting new people, having to learn new things, sink or swim.’
Finally, Naomi could feel the fire dying in her cheeks. She was managing to look him in the eye for longer periods. His eyes were grey-blue, she decided, a subtle mixture, hard to tell out of daylight. ‘So you’re a graduate then?’
‘Have been for a few years now,’ he said. ‘I’ve never wanted a proper job though. I’m not ready to commit to it just yet. There are things I want to do first. You have to live a bit, don’t you?’
Naomi had no experience of what he was hinting at or talking about, she only knew that being this close to this person was the most exhilarating feeling she’d ever had, and right now, she’d have considered trading an arm to keep him there. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling warmly as she took her first sip. ‘I suppose so.’
Her phone lit up on the bar, though the ringtone was swallowed by background noise. It was a text from Annabel. He looked down and saw the name.
‘My sister,’ Naomi explained unnecessarily, noting the thrill she got from spilling something personal. She hoped he’d do the same.
He nodded once. ‘Look, I’d better get going. I’m meeting someone.’ Her body deflated as she worked to hold her smile and her poise. ‘He was supposed to meet me here, but apparently some blonde has detained him in a bar across town. I can’t imagine she’s nailed him down, can you?’ He rolled his incredible eyes and licked his lips and finished with a smile. ‘I’d better go and see if I can save him from himself. The guy’s married.’ He shook his head as if he despaired of whoever it was, put his phone in his trouser pocket. No wedding ring.
He. He said he, not she. She breathed more easily. ‘OK then,’ was all she could find. In the few silent moments that followed – that felt incomparably different from Siobhan’s silences – he held her eyes. Should she say something? Maybe. Definitely. She couldn’t speak. Or think.
‘Enjoy your evening then . . .’ he was saying, searching her eyes, asking her name.
‘Naomi.’ Too eager. She wanted to say it again differently. Too late.
He smiled again, allowing her time to note the row of neatly arranged teeth. He was astonishingly perfect. She was looking for flaws now just to convince herself he was real.
‘Naomi,’ he finished, voice low, absorbing the name. ‘That’s nice.’ He had a slight cleft in his chin that only added to the face – this face she was now memorising and pinning onto a vacant wall in her mind for later. He hesitated again while she fought the impulse to grab hold of him and wrestle him to the ground. ‘Nathan Stone. Lovely to meet you.’
‘You too,’ she said. Don’t leave. He reached out and lightly touched the side of her arm. Her mind wiped clean. She could still feel the warmth of his hand against her skin long after he’d strode casually away without looking back.
Naomi picked up her phone, heart pounding, and opened the message. She stared at Annabel’s one word and sighed, long and hard. Phwoah.
It was about the only word in her head too.
<><><>
Naomi had won the lottery, but had lost her ticket. Well, not lost, just mislaid. She was certain she’d find it again. That’s how she felt during the whole of the following week. Nathan Stone. Lovely to meet you. She’d have had a nice stash of cash if she’d banked a fiver every time those words had sung like a cathedral bell in her head. They’d come during conscious and unconscious moments. They’d echoed above the fortissimo sections of the Beethoven sonata she’d been practising for days. They’d intruded in her conversations, standing as a delicious barrier between her and whoever she was talking to, making her feel detached from them and connected with him, Nathan Stone. Lovely to meet you. It was an intensely pleasurable feeling. She held it closely, strangely invigorated, sharing it with no one. She’d lost the need to be a people-leech and scrounge acceptance and approval wherever she could.
Being alone in her room didn’t panic her anymore. It gave her quiet time to recall Nathan Stone’s glorious face and recapture the sensation of his hand touching her skin, when he’d seared an imprint upon her that she couldn’t forget.
And now she was trying so little, the relationships that week formed effortlessly. She found herself being invited to this and that room, and such and such a night out. She went to everything, taking Nathan Stone with her, her invisible companion who kept her smiling and laughing and oozing a new energy she didn’t know she had, and very much preferred. Anticipating Nathan to be in every shop or bar, or coming towards her on every street, she dressed more carefully than usual, and took loads of time over colours and contrasts and accessories. Deciding her wardrobe could use a facelift too, and with a sudden appetite for being out and about, she bought some new gear.
Was she sending vibes of availability to all the guys? She didn’t mean to. But it was the only explanation for the fact that on that same week, the compliments rolled and two guys asked her out. Flattered, but stumbling for words, she did what she normally tried hard not to do, and lied. Sparing their feelings, she told them both she was already in a relationship. And it felt just like she was. Living with a person round the clock, hearing their voice, feeling their touch felt exactly like having a relationship. There was no room for anyone else while Nathan Stone was a constant presence.
<><><>
Two weeks after the Freshers’ dinner, with not a glimpse of Nathan despite a desperate search wherever she wandered, her sparkle was burning dim. Another week after that, with still nothing to fuel it but the embers of dying memories, she was feeling uncomfortably low. By now, she was relieved she hadn’t mentioned Nathan to anyone.
Annabel hadn�
��t noticed anything different. Lorie had noticed small changes and quizzed her. But Naomi sidestepped the questions, putting her mood swings down to her new environment, never mentioning the man who’d burned two minutes of her life and impacted it more forcefully than all the other things and people put together.
Truth was, she concluded in a dark moment on a dismal Friday afternoon three weeks after the event, there was nothing to tell. A man had bought a drink for a pathetic-looking young girl years younger than himself who couldn’t get served. And? She’d blushed like a kid. He’d been generous and polite and left her his name. So? Maybe Nathan Stone was one of those gifted people who could make whoever he spoke to, feel special. And he had made her feel special that night. Hadn’t he? Maybe it was pity. He’d touched her arm. Oh p-lease! Maybe he’d touched four other arms on his way to the hotel door that night.
Naomi groaned out loud and covered her face as she lay on her bed. She was tired of going over the same questions that had no answers. Her head needed a clear-out. She rubbed her face and put her hands flat by her sides and opened her eyes to focus on a spider. For three days, it had made a home of the far corner of the ceiling and waited with endless patience for someone to call in. Naomi didn’t have the heart to destroy its little web and chuck it out of the six storey window. She didn’t know how it would find its next meal, but if it could stay put and be happy, she’d make room for a flatmate.
‘I’ll take the floor, you take the ceiling,’ she muttered. ‘Stick to your own half.’
She named it Sydney. So now it was male. And now, she decided, she was definitely crazy.
Naomi sat up and swung her legs onto the floor. She bowed her head and reluctantly decided it was time to move on from Nathan Stone. She clutched her necklace and uttered a few words, asking for strength to get on with it, move on. God had not granted a reunion with Nathan during the past three weeks despite pleading then bargaining, so that was that. Acceptance. Wasn’t that the essence of faith – to submit to God’s will, without the luxury of understanding why? OK, so Nathan Stone was history. She stood up, trying to feel better. History or not, letting go hurt like hell.
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