She looked at me, her grey eyes luminous. ‘Do you think you could try the clasp again?’
I didn’t try the clasp. I crossed the Rubicon instead. I kissed her palm and then I kissed her wrist and then the inside of her arm up to the elbow.
There’s nothing quite as lovely as the inside of a woman’s arm, where the fine white skin is soft as satin, where the pale blue veins are barely visible but, if you should stroke them, you can feel the blood pulsating through them.
‘Pat, what are you doing?’ whispered Rosie.
‘I guess I’m taking liberties with you.’
‘I thought as much.’
‘So stop me.’
‘What if I don’t want to stop you? What if I was hoping you would kiss me everywhere?’
‘Do you think you’d like it?’
‘I won’t know until you do it.’
‘Maybe I would like you to kiss me?’
‘If I do, you might be turned to stone.’ She smiled, her gaze hypnotic, pupils huge, the grey almost invisible. ‘When I kissed you at the airport back in Minneapolis you stood there like a statue, like you’d been petrified.’
‘I guess I was surprised.’
‘You mean you were annoyed, upset, embarrassed?’
‘No, I mean surprised.’ I stroked her hair back from her face. ‘I couldn’t figure out why you would want to kiss a guy like me.’
‘What kind of guy are you?’
‘A guy who’s crazy because he thinks, he hopes you like him, who’s in love with you.’ There, now I said it and there was no going back. Did I want to unsay what I just said? I wanted to repeat it.
So I did and then I took her face between my hands and kissed her on the mouth. Then I kissed her neck and then she arched away from me, inviting me to kiss her throat and kiss her everywhere and so I did.
Mr William Shakespeare, you are an accessory, I thought, as I held Rosie in my arms and it felt like she should be there for eternity. It was where she belonged. I’m holding you responsible, you hear me?
‘You must be tired?’ she asked, when ten minutes, twenty minutes later, who was counting, certainly not me, she pulled away and looked at me.
‘Yeah, I’m tired,’ I said.
‘You don’t have to go and find a cab or get the tube. You could stay here. The sofa is a bed.’ She looked at me, her eyes big and transparent. ‘Or you could sleep with me.’
‘Rosie, are you trying to seduce me?’
‘Do I need to try?’
‘A girl like you, a girl who is amazing and fantastic and wonderful in every single way, I guess she doesn’t have to try too hard.’
‘Then shall we go to bed?’ She saw me hesitating. ‘Pat, I mean like now, before you check tomorrow’s lecture notes or file your tax return?’
‘Rosie, have you thought this whole thing through?’
‘You’re married, you have children, there’s every chance you’ll go back to your wife and break my heart. But I’d still like to go to bed with you because I know that if I don’t I shall regret it all my life – cards on the table, right?’
I thought I wasn’t anything like Ben.
But perhaps deep down I’m just the same? Perhaps I have forgotten what I said in church? Perhaps I never meant it in the first place?
No – I’m not like Ben. When he seduces pretty co-eds, it’s all about more conquests, more spraying round the district like a tomcat. It’s like the man from Laramie – more notches on his gun.
What I felt for Rosie wasn’t about conquest.
So what was it, then?
I couldn’t identify it because I never felt that way before. The nearest I had been was when I was a choirboy in Recovery, when we sang Easter Mass. But even that did not come close.
ROSIE
I felt like I was drunk, but I was stone cold sober.
I felt like I was floating, as if I was unreal, but I was in the here and now, and everything I felt and sensed was sharp and cut as deep as knives.
Whenever I’d had sex with men before, I’d watched them and I’d judged them. I’d never wanted to engage with them or – as they put it in old-fashioned novels – to give myself to them, except in the most physical, emotionally-disconnected, do-it-for-me way. All I’d wanted was to gain some fleeting satisfaction – to get laid – and I suppose that far from giving, I just took.
But with Pat there was no taking, giving or sexual bargaining. When he kissed me on the wrist, I suddenly knew I was a part of him, that he must be a part of me. We were like a pair of compasses, two separate points but still connected and – although I knew it was irrational or even downright stupid of me to suppose it – I was almost sure we always would be.
We lay together in my bed and he played with my hair. He wound it round and round his fingers, clearly fascinated by my curls, perhaps because his own black hair was ruler-straight. ‘What are you thinking, Pat?’ I asked.
‘Your hair, I never saw such wild abundance.’ He pushed it off my face and held it back. ‘Do you ever wear it up?’
‘No, never. Or perhaps I should say hardly ever. There’s too much of it. I’ve sometimes had it up for weddings or events. I look as if I have a puffball on my head.’
‘I like it down in any case.’
‘I hate my hair. It’s uncontrollable. When I was child, I wanted more than anything to be a Barbie blonde. I longed for straight, fair hair.’
‘Your hair’s perfection and I love it.’
‘You’re a big fat liar, Patrick Riley, but I’ll let you off. What else are you thinking?’
‘I don’t dare to say.’
‘Go on, you can dare anything. I’m giving you a global dispensation, a plenary indulgence.’
‘You told me one time you didn’t have much history with guys. But you must have kind of known some men?’
‘Dr Riley, what are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t have a clue what I’m suggesting. But I want to know, I need to know—’
‘You’re asking if I’ve been to bed with lots of other men?’
‘I remember what you said when we were in that restaurant in Minneapolis.’
‘What did I say?’
‘You’ve been on dates. But you’ve never gotten close to one particular guy. You’ve never been engaged. I’m sure you must have had a ton of boyfriends, though – a pretty girl like you?’
‘I’ve mucked around with loads of tossers, yes.’
‘Tossers – does that mean—’
‘I’ve known a bunch of wankers.’
‘You didn’t fall in love?’
‘I’ve always known I couldn’t love a git, and most of the men I’ve known were gits.’
‘Gits.’ He rolled the word around his tongue. ‘You mean they were losers?’
‘Yes, but git is stronger, more pejorative. I’m surprised you haven’t come across it.’
‘I lead a sheltered, academic life.’ He looked at me. ‘Git – I like it. I must use it. Okay, then – these gits, what did they do to you?’
‘Annoy me, try my patience, bore me.’
‘They didn’t make you care for them at all?’
‘Oh, Pat! I think you’re jealous!’
‘I’m insanely jealous. You can’t begin to realise how mad it makes me, not to be your first.’
‘I’m not your first.’
‘No, you’re my second.’
‘Yes?’ I laughed at him. ‘So go on, pull the other one?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s another Britishism. Monty Python and the Holy Grail – you must have seen that movie?’
‘I don’t think so, is it new?’
‘No, it must be thirty-five years old or maybe more. I saw it first when I was six or seven. We had the video. So you’re telling me that you and Lexie, neither of you—’
‘Lex and I, we both have Catholic mothers who believe in hell for people who step out of line.’
‘I have a Catholic mother, too
.’
‘You do?’ He frowned. ‘I thought you British were all Protestants?’
‘There are lots of Protestants, but my father’s mother – that’s my Granny Cassie – she’s a Catholic. So she was delighted when Dad met and married Mum. But he wouldn’t let Mum bring me up to be a Catholic because he’s not religious. I was never christened.’
‘Your mom, she didn’t insist on that?’
‘No, why would she insist?’
‘She had a moral duty to insist and to make sure that you were brought up Catholic, as well.’
‘She and Granny Cassie sometimes snuck me into church at Christmas and at Easter – does that count?’
‘I doubt it.’ Patrick shrugged. ‘I can see your mother must be more relaxed than mine.’
‘It’s not that she’s relaxed. It’s all down to my dad. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is allowed to argue with my father. Pat, why don’t you tell me all your secrets?’
‘I don’t have any secrets.’
‘Okay, tell me serious stuff and trivial stuff, like what you have for breakfast, what you do when you’re not working, why your ancestors went to America, when and how you met your wife and when you fell in love.’
‘I eat cereal for breakfast. When I’m not in college, I do stuff with Joe and Polly. Mornings, I go running. Nights, I try to get some sleep. My ancestors were Irish and Italian peasants who came to America back in the nineteenth century, escaping poverty or even famines, hoping for a better life. Lex and I, we dated all through high school, missed each other all through college, married when we graduated.’
‘So you had no other girlfriends? Pat, that’s positively mediaeval.’
‘Yeah, Ben often says he can’t believe that I’m for real. I must be an alien, he reckons, not a human being with ordinary human wants and needs.’
‘You’re no alien, Dr Riley.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t make assumptions? There might be room for doubt? Maybe I should do some simple tests to make quite certain?’
‘Yeah, I guess you should. I think you’ll find the scientific method is usually the best.’
‘The scientific method?’
‘Okay, you ask your question. You do a little research. You work out a hypothesis. You set up your experiment—’
‘I like to learn through play.’ I rolled on top of him and started talking dirty and I soon assured myself that Patrick Riley was all human being.
Afterwards, I slept.
But then of course the nightmares came. Mum was sobbing, telling Dad it was his fault if Charlie was in hell, and adding she was sure he’d go there, too. Dad said that was fine by him. He’d probably meet some interesting people. He didn’t want to go to heaven anyway, especially if it was full of bores and saints like Mum.
I know my parents love each other. They’re devoted, always have been and I’m sure they always will be. Dad would die a thousand deaths for Mum and she would walk through fire for him.
But when people are bereaved and when their hearts are broken, they say some awful things. Charlie dying didn’t just divide our lives into before and after. It stopped us saying what we should have said, from comforting each other when we needed comfort most.
I don’t know why.
PATRICK
I never knew that you could learn so much through play. Rosie was such fun, so clever, so inventive. I never met a girl – or anyone – with such a great imagination. She was so focused and intent. She made me feel the world belonged to us – and only us.
She was also beautiful. The tiny imperfections – her not-quite-California-straight front teeth, the puckered seam from an appendix surgery across her flat, pale stomach, the gravel marks on both her knees from when she must have fallen off her bike when she was just a kid – they made me love her more.
The street light shone into the room so I could watch her while she slept. She lay so still it seemed like she was dead. I touched her arm, her forehead once or twice to make sure she was warm. I listened hard to hear she was still breathing.
Did she always sleep so deeply? Once or twice her eyelids fluttered and she kind of whimpered. Then she was quiet again. I guessed I’d never tire of watching Rosie. Perhaps I’d never get another chance to watch her while she slept?
I figured I would stay awake all night.
ROSIE
When I woke up again, it was still early. So early that the everlasting buzz and hum of London were still hushed, still muted, and what sounds there were seemed muffled and apologetic, reluctant to disturb the city’s slumber.
The street light shone into the bedroom, leaching everything of colour, turning everything to monochrome, like we were in a 1950s film. Pat was sleeping, lying on his stomach, both arms underneath his pillow, head turned to one side, long, black lashes lying on his cheeks, which lower down were rough and dark with early morning stubble.
I kissed and stroked him until he woke up, too.
‘Hey, Rosie.’
‘Hello, Pat.’
‘Why did you wake me up?’ He smiled and kissed me. ‘Do you want to play?’
‘Maybe you could go and put the kettle on?’ I said an hour later.
‘You go put the kettle on,’ he said. ‘While you’re in the kitchen, you could fix my breakfast, too.’
‘Why can’t you do that?’
‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘You wore me out.’ He kissed me on my mouth, my neck, my throat. He ran his fingers through my hair. ‘Coffee, cereal and toast with some of your delicious British marmalade,’ he added. ‘Do you have Cooper’s Oxford?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Patrick, do you know that you are nothing but a knuckle-dragging, Neolithic throwback?’
‘I love it when you’re sweet to me.’ Then he grabbed my wrists and pushed me back against the pillows. ‘Rosie, do you know that you are funny, clever, sexy, beautiful – the pinnacle of evolution?’
‘You’re assuming flattery will get you everywhere?’
‘I kind of hope it might.’ He kissed my nose. ‘While you’re fixing coffee, maybe you could also fix some brownies, muffins, croissants, jelly doughnuts?’
‘Or maybe you could just make do with cornflakes and with me?’
He had to leave for work an hour later. I did, too. While Professor Riley went to do whatever clever stuff IT professors did, I’d go to meet the woman who made shampoos, conditioners and deodorants for dogs. Then I had to find some upscale shops who’d stock these things.
‘So shall I see you on the weekend?’ he enquired as he ate his cornflakes and swallowed scalding coffee.
‘It’s already Friday morning,’ I reminded him.
‘Then I’ll meet you after work this evening, shall I?’ He was smiling now and with that stubble he looked very, very sexy. ‘Show you a good time?’
‘What about the children – don’t you want to see your children?’
‘Yeah, but the kids and Lex are going someplace. York, I think she said. Something to do with Vikings, would it be?’
‘So you won’t be busy?’
‘No – and even if I was I’d change my plans.’
He kissed me one last time and then he went to find a taxi to take him back to his hotel so he could shave and change his clothes before he went to college.
I missed him already.
PATRICK
It was the best weekend. Yeah, she kind of showed me London, but I didn’t see it. All I saw was Rosie and, although it drizzled constantly and the sky was stained a miserable British grey, she was always bathed in golden light.
‘Let’s go out,’ she said on Saturday as we ate breakfast.
‘Where shall we go?’ I asked.
‘What sort of thing appeals to you?’
A ton of stuff – but most of all I want to stay in bed with you, I thought and was about to say. But then I decided that perhaps I ought to make a little effort to ride the tourist trail? Be an interested and appreciative guest here i
n this foreign country?
‘Do I need to see the Tower of London?’
‘You need to see all sorts of things. The Shard, Madame Tussauds, the London Eye – they’re on almost everybody’s list. Or we could go on a river trip to Hampton Court?’
‘You call your Thames a river?’
‘What else would it be?’
‘A creek?’
‘I know it doesn’t rival your mighty Mississippi. But it’s wide enough for rowing boats and coracles. So, Professor Riley, do you row?’
‘I rowed for college one time. Okay, we’ll hire a rowboat or a coracle and go to Hampton Court. Then shall we check out the London Eye, go up the Shard?’
She lied about the coracle. She sent me to the tourist information place to ask where I could hire a tandem coracle to row to Hampton Court. The guys there laughed at me and then directed me toward the pleasure cruiser by the pier.
ROSIE
He was just the tiniest bit annoyed about the tandem coracle.
‘You’re a minx,’ he told me as we leaned against the pleasure cruiser’s rail and watched the Surrey scenery drift past.
‘You’re a gullible American.’
‘But I never even heard of coracles before!’
‘God gave us Google, didn’t he? You have a mobile phone? You know how to look stuff up online?’
‘I guess,’ he said, and then he glanced down at the foaming, dark brown water being churned up by the river cruiser. ‘You like to swim?’ he asked. ‘If you should fall into this creek, you think you’d make it to the bank?’
‘Of course – I have webbed feet.’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised. You were busy checking out some other parts of me.’
‘Maybe I should check them out again?’
He took me in his arms and kissed me – not with passion, but with little teasing kisses, ones that made me tingle from my head down to my toes.
He made me happy – happy, happy, happy. I knew it couldn’t last, that – unlike sadness – happiness is transitory. It’s just an illusion. But, while I was with Patrick, I felt so warm and comforted, as if I were wrapped up in cotton wool. No, make that cashmere.
Magic Sometimes Happens Page 16