London was one of the cities where I traveled most frequently, whether it was for pleasure or for work. I had always had a love-hate relationship with it. Every time I went there, my experience and my vision of the British capitol was so different from the last one that I was having trouble in deciding if I loved it or if I hated it, but some strange magnet was always pulling me to her, and at least two times a month, I slept there, in a hotel in Paddington.
One strangely sunny morning in January, one of those days when Londoners, unaccustomed to light, ignore the five degrees marked by the thermometer of the nearest metro station and invade the terraces, parks and any public space of more than ten square meters to gather and enjoy those few rays of sun that once in a while, on rare occasions, decide to cheer the city up, the country, with its presence, I left the hotel dressed in my work uniform.
The day before, even before I left my luggage in my room, I had walked through various shops in Oxford street in search of a black pencil skirt. It had to be high enough to cover my navel and long enough to reach my knees without touching them, without passing them, just underlining them. The stockings that would accompany the outfit had to be dark, elegant and the shirt had to break the mourning that I wore from the waist down. I bought a lot of shirts of that same style in a shop near Hyde Park, but on that sunny morning, I chose a fuchsia with ruffles on the neck that enhanced my office pale office tan. I also wanted to be a part of that early spring that had taken the city by surprise.
I came near the Starbuck in the train station in a hurry, as usual, and ordered a caffé latte that burned my tongue. I was always saying – Not too hot – but I never got them to serve me a coffee that did not numbed my tongue for the rest of the day. I had twenty minutes of subway until Holborn stop and I spent the majority of my time opening the plastic lid of my take away breakfast to blow, one, two, three, four, five times and check that it was still too hot.
I had to meet with mister Edward Becher in the reception of a Georgian-style building, owned by a local hotel chain, on which they had a restructuring plan and wanted to know the sales options. Mister Becher had contacted me by email just a week before inviting me to meet him to know that <
I had received emails of that kind many times, office directors, marketing, sales, promotion, that claimed to own buildings with great opportunities of remodeling that turned out to be abandoned heirlooms of the city’s great old fortunes that had been auctioned and bought by new rich without trade nor profit. This one did not seemed to be the case. The Gregorian-style building with columns at the entrance and seventy-two windows typical of his architectural style, was already an operating hotel. Three stars, but operating. Plus, an express trip to London, I would only be there for two nights, it was a good plan to break in half the boring office week. It was Tuesday.
My calculations, the ones I’d made that morning looking at a map of the city, were wrong regarding the distance between the subway and the columns of the entrance of the Gregorian building, and the little fifteen minute walk I had to take from one point to the other turned out to be a half an hour with a final sprint. I was late and breathless, - we’re off to a good start – o thought, but I arrived. While I was stretching my skirt with my hands and my feet were recomposing inside my high heels shoes, the crystal doors of the hotel opened and at the end of the staris, seven y calculated, in front of the reception desk, I saw who I supposed was, Mr. Becher.
- Miss Bas, I suppose – he said upon intuiting my entrance by the noise of the heels against de marmot at the entrance.
- A pleasure, excuse my delay.
That was me, Elena Bas and him, Edward Becher had nothing to do with the “Mr. Becher” I had imagined behind the emails I received on my computer and my blackberry, indistinctly. He was young, maybe thirty-two years old, and that was something I did not expect. To me, by that time, if a man signed as Mr. Becer, he was telling me that he was or soon to be fifty years of age, that he was married, that had a lot of sons, one of them would be a teenager and a house with a yard. That is why when I saw Mr. Becher, without a ring, without a tie, far from fifty, probably with no children and a brown beard with red hair, I was disconcerted.
- Don’t worry, you are in what could be called the Spanish punctuality – I kid.
If Mr. Brecher, hadn’t sided his smile the way he did, if the expression in his eyes hadn’t had that ironic touch, complice, attractive, almost sexy, that answer with the typicall british humor would have been the lousy start of a commercial relationship that would have started to die with the first handshake. But it wasn’t.
- If it’s alright with you, we start the visit from the fifth floor, where we have two suites and we’ll go down from there.
- Ok – I nodded.
It was nine past ten in the morning, I was carrying my golden jacket folded over my right arm, the same arm that was holding an enormous skin purse invaded by dozens of “indispensable” things that I couldn’t leave in the hotel room and be freed of the weight. The phone, its charger, my address book, a notebook to take notes, the foldable umbrella, the wallet with the company’s money, my personal coin purse, a book, tooth brush, tooth paste, a hair comb, paper tissues, a four colored pen, one blue, one black, a yellow highlighter, the subway map and a bottle of mineral water, no gas. Edward, who since that first smile had stopped being Mr. Becher to be simply, Edward, extended his arm towards me, inviting me to follow him to the end of the hallway. In doing so, with the tips of his fingers he caressed, in a light almost imperceptible way, the part of my part where the shoulders are high up and the waist is still a bit down, in a gesture that would result slightly inappropriate for a man like Mr. Becher, but that it did not seemed rude to me for a young man that was Edward, just as.
We went through the five floors of the hotel on foot, while he was explaining far more things than I was interested in and as I was writing in my address book, with the blue pen, far less data than he would have liked. I nodded with my head for every detail, professionally, as if the heat system of that Gregorian building and the state of the cauldron was what I really wanted hear about. I wished, instead, that in between all that professional information, something personal would escape him, but I forgot that in front of me I had an English gentleman who would never allow himself such “impudence” of that kind. I resigned, therefore, to pay attention in the square meters of the rooms, the safety measures, the height of the balconies, and the electric system, waiting that at some moment, an informal conversation would start that would break the ice of the strictly professional. But it did not happen. Not even when we went inside the narrow service elevator, some kind of lift truck that forced us to bring our bodies closer than what British courtesy would have considered appropriate. I felt then, his odor for the first time, that perfume so common in any other man and so special on his skin.
- It has been a pleasure Elena – he said squeezing my hand strongly to get closer to me and give a light kiss on my cheek.
- The pleasure has been mine – I responded pulling away from him.
When the meeting was over and I said goodbye to Edward, I went straight to my hotel, to work on that micro office with an ancient wooden table against the window and a green velvet chair. I had to monitor the emails, answer to lost calls that were accumulating on mi phone, which had been in silence mode for a few hours, and write the inform about the viability of the project I had just visited. I knew it wouldn’t be the best of our deals. Beauty Buildings worked with
much more charismatic buildings than the Gregorian of Holborn, but Edward had known how to sell well the project, even better than what he could have imagined. I wanted to see him again and for that, for the first time, I was going to use my job.
I would skip the number one rule in bussineses; not to mix bussines with feelings. That was a rule I did not learned in the university, that Mr. Cuevas never set when he hired me but I knew it, as a matter of logic and professionalism, that it was a huge mistake. Actually, in Edwards case, I wasn’t even mixing my feeling, since I had just met him, but he planted in me such curiosity that I wanted to resolve, at least with second meeting, and for that, I needed yes or yes, to use the project of Holborn as a pretext. So far, nothing else united us and for the first time I would cross the line of the “number one rule”.
I knew beforehand that it was a mistake and of course, that lack of professionalism was very unworthy of Elena Bas, but I was twenty-eight years old and I wasn’t any more than a young lady in an executive custome. At that age, men would attract me more from a physical perspective than a sentimental one. I was not very gicen to romanticisms, mayve because of the lack of time or simply of interest. I was into secure men, the ones who didn’t go around anything, the ones who knew what they wanted and didn’t ask for explanations later. I didn’t have time to make the conquests, the gifts, the weekends in a rural mountain house... and much less to justify my trips, to endure the reproaches of my absences and to apologize every time I got on a plane. Since I started to work for Beauty Building Company, my love life had reduced itself to my sex life and sincerely, I was fine that way.
Edward fitted perfectly to the prototype of men I was interested in at twenty-eight. Successful professional, smart, cult, educated, with some taste when it came to dressing up, attractive and sure of himself. That os why I thought about writing him an email thanking him for his time and informing him that he would hear from me soon. It was totally unnecessary but I wanted to know more about him, even if it hadn’t been more than a few hours after the extension of that handshake turned into a kiss on the cheek. Of course, he hadn’t been at all professional about that gesture. In bussines, physical distance is primarily, unless on a first encounter and a closeness like his did not proceed. Then, why did I had to measure my acts? Hadn’t it been him who first crossed the line between professionalism and personal that was separating us? Besides, it was just an email, yes, unnecessary, but a work email in the end.
Dear Edward,
Thank you so much for your attention and your time. Soon you will have news from me regarding the “Holborn” project.
Best regards,
Elena Bas.
A ring from my mobile phone alerted me that an email had entered my inbox. It could be publicity or one of those hundred emails I received throughout the day, but it was not one or the other, it was Edward, who responded within a few minutes of my contacting him with the first pretext I could think of.
Dear Elena,
I hope impatiently for news from you. I wish you enjoy your London afternoon, the sun has come out for you.
Edward. X.
A kiss? Had I signed with a kiss? I jumped out of the chair and began to walk, barefooted, through the damp carpet of the room. (In the English language, the letter “X” is used as a written abbreviation of the word “kiss”). I was moving from one side to the other, reading and rereading that email, that finale, that kiss. I was not the only one that day with the intention of skipping rule number one. I had in my hands a game that could result dangerous, was I ready to face the consequences? I picked up my purse, I went down the stairs from the third floor where my room was to the hotel lobby and went out to the street. Edward was right, the sun had come out for me. At least that’s how I felt.
O walked with the weird sensation of seeing him on every corner, with the pleasure of knowing that perhaps, the city, was not so big, that maybe, his routine and my necessity of fresh air, would accidentally meet in front of the door of a Hindu restaurant, Thai or Italian. I walked until I resigned, until reality draw the way back to my hotel, to that London room that since a few years ago had become like my second home.
When I returned to Barcelona, the first thing I did when I walked in my office at nine in the morning, was to present to Mr. Cuevas the Holborn project. Right away I could tell he was not in the mood. If I hated Tuesdays, my boss, incomprehensibly, hated Fridays. Even more, if he hadn’t had his coffee and I suspected, walking into his office, by the way he looked at me, that he hadn’t.
- If you’re ok with it Elena, go ahead.
He didn’t even bother to read the dossier. He gave it a quick glance, looked at the final numbers, the ones that really mattered to him, and gave me his approval.
I walked out of his office satisfied. Not only by the confidence Mr. Cuevas was demonstrating once again in me, but because his words meant that soon I would be seeing Edward again. The game begun.
Dear Edward,
I am pleased to inform you that the project has been approved. Some point next week I will be giving you the details of the agreement.
Elena. X.
I signed with an “X”, sent it and covered my face with both of my hands. Suddenly, I felt ashamed for knowing that I had just made a mistake, that I was initiating a game that would surely end badly, but I couldn’t stop, I didn’t want to stop.
I got up from the chair, turned the monitor off and went to the coffee machine. – you are so unprofessional Elena... - I told myself while drinking a bitter expresso - Hey, but life is more than work, isn’t it? I have to live! – I answered myself-. That phrase should have been the alarm sign that was letting me know of all the changes going on within me. Three days ago, before my trip to London, before my encounter with Edward and long before that “X” goodbye, I wouldn’t have said that life was more than working. My life was my job, and I was happy like that, or so I thought.
The alarm sign was supposed to inform me that maybe that kind of happiness was not as such, that if I needed to play was because a was bored, that if I needed to run that risk was because I needed to feel alive, to feel like for once I would lose control of the situation. Of my situation, of my life.
The alarm signal should have warned me, but it didn’t and when I got back to the little paradise that was my table in my office, with my blue address book, all my pens and my mobile phone, I turned on the computer screen with the fear of finding his answer there. I knew that X had ratted me out. I had accepted the game and I was sure that’s the way he understood it.
Dear Elena,
Great, we will talk next week. Have a nice week end.
Edward. X.
P.D.= Do you have plans for tonight?
Yes, he had understood.
Dear Edward,
I would like to tell you that tonight, a beautiful evening awaits for me in the company of my friends, whom I have not seen in a while, and that later we will go for a drink to some fashionable place, surely in the central zone of the city’s port, where we will be catching up until late evening hours and that I will be arriving home late, tired and happy, but the reality is that my plan for this Friday night is to stay at home, order a pizza and watch some movie in the company of my couch blanquet,
Elena. X.
P.D.= I hate cold weather.
It was true, I hated the cold. Since I was little, even though I spent my Christmases in Norfolk and fifty percent of my blood was British, I hated the cold and the winters I dedicated them to hibernate. I only went out to the streets for necessity and when I didn’t have a choice, I mean, when I wasn’t working or traveling. The rest of the time I locked myself home, with the heather on, my flannel pijamas, the blanket and take out dinner.
Luckily in Barcelona, cold weather doesn’t last long and in march I could recover my normal rhythm.
Dear Elena,
It is a shame that your stay at home plan sounds so good, because I am in Barcelona and I would have loved to invite you out for a dr
ink before I return to London tomorrow. But I understand that your couch blanket might feel abandoned, even jealous, if you accept my invitation, so, don’t feel guilty if you decide to turn me down, I understand you motives ;).
Edward. X.
Why had I stopped smoking? I needed a cigar, fifteen puffs of smoke that would let me think with clarity. Edward was in Barcelona, Edward was in Barcelona... Edward was in Barcelona! I would accept his invitation, there was no doubt about that, but where would that date lead me? Because, obviously, it was a date. Holborn bussines was closed and although we could talk about the terms on which our agreement would be based, he, Mr. Becher, regarding work, didn’t need to make a fuss or ask me out for drinks to convince me of anything. He’d already done it, barely three days ago back in London, the city of the thousand faces, the one that with each visit showed one of its many costumes, the one that without a doubt, that week, had shown me its most interesting side.
Dear Edward,
I’m afraid that you are right, mi blanket and my couch will take take to forgive this treason of mine, but as I am Barcelonist, I am obligued to show you my city. I wouldn’t want you to pass as any other tourist.
Elena. X.
P.D.= I´ll be waiting for you at five o’clock in the cafeteria in front of my office. Try not to get lost ;)
I thought that meeting Edward in the cafeteria in front of my office, at the exact time I got out from work, would take away certain pressure to that unexpected date. I didn’t know if he had planned it or simply took advantage of my email to propose to ask me out. If I hadn’t written him that afternoon maybe my only date that Friday would have been with the pizza delivery guy, or maybe not. He may have found a pretext to write me and propose, after several emails, to see each other that same night. I didn’t know, as I still don’t know now, but I preferred not to think about it, to end my work, cross the street and enter the cafeteria en which the waiters knew me and act as if what was about to happen, was actually something normal. As if the nerviousness I was beginning to feel, the sweat in my hands, the reflex of looking at myself on every mirror, comb my hair, paint my lips and looking at the clock every five minutes, weren’t an irrefutable proof of my intentions. The same ones I suspected, wished, that Edward had.
The Four Corners of my Past Page 8