Henry and Gracie

by Marilyn Jeulin

  I try blinking away the alcohol induced audacity that seems to be pushing me forward. By the time he offers me his hand to help me to my feet, I worry I’m about to fall flat on my face. I need to stop drinking champagne, I think as I lean against him, my eyes zooming in on his lips. For a moment, I wonder what it would feel like to kiss him. To kiss him and completely forget about everything that happened with Henry.

  Yup, champagne makes me slutty.

  “You good to walk?” His eyes flicker to my lips and then back to my eyes.

  “Yes,” I say, but I don’t move. Tom helps me out of the restaurant, promising that the air will probably help.

  The cold breeze outside the restaurant helps clear the alcohol-induced haze. I straighten up and let go of his hand, but it then moves to the small of my back.

  “Want to go for a walk?” he asks, and I try to think of a million ways to say no.

  “Sure,” my traitor brain says as I look ahead. “Near the river?”

  “Sure. I think the air will do us some good.” He offers a mischievous smile when his hand moves from my lower back to my arm, and down to my hand.

  “Are you trying to imply that we’re more than tipsy?” Soon all thoughts die when he links our fingers together before we navigate the maze of streets until we reach Westminster Bridge.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  We walk toward the Thames, his hand still holding mine. My mind is trying hard to muster the courage to command my hand to let go, but it gives up when we stop walking.

  “Have you ever seen something as beautiful as this?” I ask, staring at the river, the twinkling lights from the street lamps reflecting on the water. “And don’t say Paris at night,” I add immediately before he can even reply, with a mock stern look before I smile.

  “I wouldn’t even dream about it. I’m a Londoner.” He leans against the bridge’s wall and looks on. “For me, there’s no place like home.”

  Tiny restaurant boats move up and down the Thames. Lovers walk hand in hand around us, tourists snap pictures of everything, even trash cans. A smile settles on my lips before I fix them on the London Eye. For a moment, my tipsy thoughts sour as I remember the date with Dimas. I shudder, forcing my eyes to move away from that and settle on Tower Bridge.

  “Do you know the poem, The Haunted Orphan?” I ask as Tom glances my way with a smile.

  “Pedro Alamo,” he says looking toward the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben.

  “He was a pharmacist… did you know?” Tom nods and I add, “What about Lillie Anne Padget’s poem, My City, London?” he asks, moving closer to me until our shoulders are side by side.

  “My thoughts are all of her

  Yet she would never be able to tell.

  Cardamom dresses, old markets

  Inside tiny alleys, where I leave my heart

  Tomorrow I’ll be gone

  Yet, I’ll succumb to you once more.

  Let my memories run wild,

  Of childhood sweets and eternal smiles

  Nowhere compares to thee.

  Don’t even try to make me look away,

  Only you exist for me,

  No one else makes me feel this way.”

  I start reciting it, but before I can even get to the third verse, Tom’s hand has snaked around my neck, his long fingers skimming my skin as my pulse quickens. The moment I look up to meet his eyes, I can see the fire burning in them and instead of pulling away, I remain still. Gently, his hands cup my cheeks, his eyes never parting from mine.

  This is against everything that Leticia has taught me. You just don’t kiss clients, you don’t sleep with them, and if you want to have a career with her, you should be bidding your goodbyes right about now.

  Of course, champagne is a terrible angel on my shoulder, and the more that the alcohol moves through my blood stream, the less inclined I am to do what’s right.

  Tom’s lips brush against mine in a barely-there motion before his hands abandon my face for my waist. Rather than letting me go, he pulls me into a deeper kiss, his lips devouring mine.

  His hands skim the skin under my shirt, his body pressing harder against mine, caring very little that his intention is clearly palpable. I break the kiss because I’m pretty sure that I’ll rip his clothes off right here. When he pulls away, I take a deep breath, trying hard to push myself away and do what I should have done in the first place. Walk away.

  “That—” I try to clear my thoughts, but Tom presses his forehead against mine, silencing every lucid thought that has been running through my brain.

  “—was something I’d wanted to do since I met you,” he says in such an honest voice that I’m completely disarmed.

  “We’re-you’re a client-I’m not—” I try to reorganize my thoughts, but his lips brush against mine once more, silencing me for good.

  “Come on,” he whispers once he’s come up for air, pulling me by the hand toward the other side of the river.

  We walk along the Thames in silence, passing the Savoy House, and then take Waterloo Bridge to the Strand. A few people recognize him and stop for a chat and selfies. Tom’s most gracious, speaking, signing autographs, and posing for photos as I look around, daydreaming about my bed.

  From there, we walk a short distance to Tom’s short-term accommodation. Half of my brain is making sure that I remember that I’m meant to say goodbye to him as soon as I can, but the other half, the champagne-fueled one, is saying no. Party. Party. Party.

  “You’re living in a bedsit?” My voice sounds a lot more shocked than surprised when we reach the inside of the studio.

  “Yes, reminds me of my student days,” he replies, amused.

  It’s not the usual bedsit, of course. The kitchen, though small, is more modern than the first place I got for myself after university. Back then, I even had to share the bathroom. However, Tom quickly points to what looks like a small closet. Inside, there’s a toilet and a shower. The toilet is attached to the sink in what looks like a J. The shower is small, and has a tiny glass door to access it.

  “My student days were not this nice,” I tell him while he closes the door.

  “Really, no bathroom?” He arches an eyebrow before I turn to look at him.

  The proximity of his body suddenly makes me very aware of how much trouble I’m in.

  “The kitchen wasn’t that big, either,” I point out, leaning against the wall, and he places his hand just above my shoulder, tilting toward me.

  “To be honest, my student days’ bedsit was nothing like this,” he says, playing with the hem of my shirt. My lungs burn and I remind myself to breathe.

  “And you’re coming from a mansion in the Hollywood hills to this…” I say, wondering if he’s really this down-to-earth or just pretending.

  “Well, that mansion was beautiful.” He nods, biting his bottom lip before he studies me. “But you tire of external beauty,” he mutters as his fingers move under my shirt and skim my stomach, making me gasp. “You start searching for something a bit more real.” He takes his time saying each word, his hand moving up my body and stopping right under my breast.

  “It’s human nature,” I say before he cups my breast and my face flushes.

  “I guess so.” He swallows hard before his lips brush against my neck, sending my body into a tailspin. “Gracie,” he whispers against my skin, trailing kisses around my collar bone, his fingers expertly undoing the buttons of my shirt.

  My breathing is ragged. It’s impossible to push away from him. It might be wounded pride, the champagne, or the anger that I feel toward Henry, I’m not sure, but my body refuses to break the spell.

  “Yes?” I mutter while he pushes the shirt off my shoulders and kisses down my body to my navel.

  “When did you get your belly button pierced?” He touches the tiny star hanging from it.

  “At fifteen.”

  He kisses his way back up my body until he’s inches from my face. He arches a quizzical eyebrow as if prompting me to con
tinue with the story.

  “Diana, one of my friends, she pierced our belly buttons with the precision of a surgeon.” I nod because the truth is that she did a good job and mine never got infected.

  “Isn’t that illegal? I mean, at that age?” he asks and I shrug.

  “What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

  “I can see that.” He pulls me with him to the bed.

  A sudden wild fire starts in the pit of my stomach. I close my eyes the moment his lips brush against my shoulder while my hands undo the buttons of his shirt. I let them push it off slowly, touching his skin. He shivers under my touch, giving me a sick, twisted pleasure, erasing all anger and pain from memory. At least, for now.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  After we finish undressing, my mind forgets about the ethical fight in my brain. My back arches as Tom’s deft hands explore my skin with the persistence of a perfectionist. He watches my reactions, his fingers teasing me mercilessly a wicked smile spreading across his face.

  I bite my finger to keep me from getting exceptionally loud when his mouth finally pushes me over the edge. My fingers tangle in the mass of curls that I’ve wanted to touch since we first met. A soft panting sound leaves my lips, his insistence making my body cave against him.

  Not happy with just that, he moves away for a second and I follow him as he opens the drawer on the bedside table and returns with a condom. He kisses me gently, letting my mouth crave him, before he takes charge of it. For a moment, I’m lost in a sea of want without consequences.

  Tom pulls me closer before he slides deep inside of me; my body waits for the signal to overflow against his.

  Lost in want, my body quivers against his as a dense fog and tiny pulsating waves hit my body one after the other. Tom takes my hand in his and brushes his lips against my knuckles, a soft content sigh leaving his lips. Mischief etches in his features he teases my breasts before rolling on his back.

  My eyes flutter closed with one thought circling my mind: I’m definitely screwed.

  ***

  The sun is no longer shining and the queuing people at the blasted coffee shop are making my headache worse with their constant chat. All I want is to wrap my lips around that paper cup and taste the delicious extra-large cup of caramel latte. Rather than feeling satisfied or even relaxed after last night, my brain’s been working overtime. Leticia will surely fire me. After placing my order, I move to the area where the coffee’s dispatched and lean against the wall. Swearing under my breath, I look around when the scent of sandalwood and clove cigarettes hit my nostrils. I notice Henry not too far from me. I turn my back to him, pretending to find the glass window before me extremely beautiful and the dirty street outside of it imposing.

  “Morning,” Henry whispers in a low, dangerous voice, his hot breath tickling my skin. I count to ten before turning around.

  “Hello, Henry.” My voice is harsher than it probably should be, but I’m in one of those “I don’t give a fuck” moods. I look back toward the barista, wishing he would hurry.

  “Are you still mad at me?” he asks, and I turn to glare at him. “Okay, okay, you’re mad.”

  “Catharina Langley,” the girl calls and I move forward to grab my coffee and walk out of the coffee shop.

  “You never cease to amaze me,” he tells me while he walks beside me a few seconds later, keeping up with me. “I still don’t know how you can give a fake name and act as if nothing. I would forget about it two seconds after telling the person.”

  “What do you want, Henry? I’m late,” I say without glancing in his direction.

  “I tried calling you,” he offers. My eyebrow rises and he rolls his eyes. “To apologize.” I scoff. He grabs my elbow until I have to stop walking or risk spilling the coffee all over me.

  “Yes, you should,” I reply, finally looking at him and noticing the remorseful look. Immediately, I force my eyes away for fear that I’ll end up apologizing to him.

  “When I saw you with Jared…”

  A single ‘ha’ leaves my lips, not letting him finish his sentence. “May I remind you that you were out on a date?”

  “It wasn’t. I met her at one of the bars. We decided to grab something to eat,” he says, searching my eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, looking at him. “We shouldn’t be discussing this; we’re not in a relationship. We’re friends, and you can do whatever you want, just like I can do whatever I want. Apology accepted; now I have to go.”

  “No, dammit, Graciela,” he says, holding onto my elbow once more, making me spill the coffee all over me.

  “For fuck’s sake, Henry,” I scream as the hot liquid seeps through my clothes, scalding my skin.

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” He holds my set of keys up for me to take. “Go home and change.”

  I stare at the keychain and then shake my head, making no move to take them. “I have a meeting in less than fifteen minutes.” I move to hail a cab.

  “Gracie, Graciela,” he says, standing beside me, the warmth from his body burning hotter than the scalding coffee against my skin. “Please, forgive me,” he says while I open the door to the black cab that stops beside me. “Please,” he whispers, but I don’t look his way.

  “I have to go,” I say flatly and see him move before the door slams shut.

  ***

  “What the hell happened to you?” Leticia follows me when I duck into my office. She walks in after me, closing the door before pulling the blinds down.

  The small closet in my office is truly a God send. I move toward it and thank God I always bring some extra clean clothes into the office in case I have to have dinner with clients.

  “An idiot bumped into me,” I tell her.

  “I’ll go stall the Kendishes,” she tells me, the worry lines on her face deepening. “The proposal didn’t get wet, right?” I roll my eyes.

  “No, it’s in my bag,” I point to the large bag that I haul around London like a briefcase.

  “Good, we really need this client,” she reminds me. Now that Tom Murphy is part of our clients, we only need three more big names to keep business afloat without too many worries.

  “I know,” I reply, taking off the soaked shirt and move to the small sink to wash my skin so it doesn’t smell like coffee.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you to it,” she says, walking out.

  My phone goes off.

  “I hope it’s not that idiot,” I say out loud even though I’m alone. After picking up the phone and noticing it’s B, I answer, relieved, “Hey, Bernie.”

  “Woot! Are you excited?” she asks.

  I just want to be alone for five minutes. “Yes, very. Have you finished packing?” I ask, knowing full well that she doesn’t do this until the last second.

  “I actually started already,” she says while I dry my chest and then move to change my bra.

  “You didn’t,” I say and she reassures me she’s a lot more organized nowadays.

  “Diana’s coming on later tonight. We actually booked a great venue for your birthday, and everyone but four people have RSVP’ed.”

  “Everyone but four people?” I ask, making sure that my buttons are done the right way and then move to change my skirt for the long pinstriped trousers that go with the jacket.

  “Yes, erm, let me see. The Cleggs, they’re actually moving to California that week. Then there’s Neil Black, he said that he would be out of London for the week, but he would make it up to you.”

  I shudder. “He really doesn’t have to,” I say, picturing him. He was a good-looking man, but he only agreed to a date with me because he thought I was easy.

  “And then there’s Henry Huntingdon,” she tells me as I nearly drop the phone.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  It only takes a second for my brain to process what Bernie’s saying. Of all the names that I don’t want to keep hearing today, Henry’s definitely at the top of the list.

  “Don’t worry about him. He’ll probably come
.” Knowing my luck, he’s just biding his time before making my life impossibly unbearable.

  “Have you two been fighting?” she asks in a concerned tone as I weigh my words cautiously.

  “He’ll come around,” I reply, not wanting to start discussing everything that’s gone on between Henry and me. It’s not worth the effort or the hours that we’ll surely then spend discussing it.

  “Are you sure?” Bernie asks.

  I stop and pick the phone up and turn the speaker off. “Why?”

  “He RSVP’ed — he was the first one — but then he called and said that you had a change of heart about his invite.”

  “That fucktard.” The anger takes over, making my voice sound dark and irritated. “Listen, he’ll be there, count him in. I have to go; I’m supposed to be in a meeting now with a new client.”

  “All right, I’ll do that, but if you need to talk, I’m here.” Bernie’s voice conveys concern and regret. I’ll have to force myself to talk about this with her at some point. “Bye.”

  “See you soon!” I say, trying to add a good dose of enthusiasm to that statement before I turn the phone off and rush out of the room. I then remember the stack of envelopes on my desk that need to be sent out. After changing directions and running back to my office, I quickly grab them and step out once more before slamming into something solid. My body falls back as if I’d hit a concrete wall.

  Papers fall everywhere when I hear the clickety-clack of heels around me and Andrew’s irritating voice asking if he needs to call an ambulance. Strong hands help me up. That’s when the scent of sandalwood and clove cigarettes alerts me to the person who is standing in front of me. I look up, meeting Henry’s blue eyes, which immediately makes me want to punch him, but I’m too dizzy for that.

  “Graciela… are you okay?” Henry asks while I push his hands away the moment he tries to touch me.

  “I’m fine.” I glare before turning to pick up the papers, but Leticia and Andrew beat me to it.