“You want what?” she had sneered when I had mapped out the vacation time I needed.
At the time, I had wanted to tell her that I was going to London and never coming back, but in the interest of keeping my job until I had some other gainful employment, I had bitten my tongue. I think Katherine knew that I wasn’t happy managing her gallery. Somehow my career move into the art world had been disappointing. I sensed that the field of fine arts was more in line with my talents than publishing had been, but, beyond gazing at a few pieces of contemporary art that struck a chord within, I had yet to find much fulfillment in my job at the Boone Gallery.
I sighed, then realized Ian was hanging on the line.
“Sorry to disappoint you, luv.”
“But we had plans!” I croaked. “We were going to do London together!”
“As I remember, I was going to do you all over London.”
“Oh, Ian, what about that fantasy at the British Museum? Squeezing your marbles by the Elgin Marbles?” Don’t laugh; ever since we’d met, we had shared a fantasy of a quicky in the shadows of the ancient ruins.
“My dear Madison, I’m so sorry.”
I loved the way he said my name. MOD-sin. I loved the way Ian said everything. With his mellifluous voice and sexy Scottish accent, the guy had charmed the pants off me—more than once.
Biting back disappointment, I slid a hand under the covers and glided over one round breast, teasing the nipple. “Oh, Ian. What am I going to do with you?”
“Some very naughty things, I hope, eventually.”
“Ha! I’m doing them now.” I slid my hand over my flat tummy, letting my nails glide over the lace waistband of my panties. “I’m in bed with just my panties on.”
“No!” he gasped. “And me chatting on my mobile in this dairy burg! I’m not really in a position to drop my knickers and reciprocate.”
“My breasts are pressing against this down comforter, sort of white on white. And there’s a sad, empty space in the bed beside me. Where you’re supposed to be.”
“Oh, dear.” He groaned over the phone. “You Yanks know the term blue balls?”
“I’ve always thought that was a myth put out there by adolescent boys who just want to get some.”
“No, it’s quite true. If you saw my balls at this moment in time, you’d know. They are a painful shade of blue.”
I laughed. “And how would you know, standing on a village lane, unable to drop your drawers?”
“A bloke just knows these things.” His voice was so humble, so earnest, I had to laugh again.
This time I sat up in bed and propped the pillows up behind me. “Okay, I’m awake now and it’s just sinking in that you really are not here.”
Not here after I flew all the way across the Pond to be with you, I thought, nibbling my lower lip. Oh, Ian, don’t let me down again . . . please don’t. I had come to love this man—yes, I know, I’m using the “L” word—but he had won my heart, despite his shortcomings, most of which involved the pull-and-tug demands of his beloved business. It was business that had kept him away last Christmas, and then in February when my father died of cancer. Losing Dad had been difficult, but realizing that the love of my life didn’t seem to care . . . that had been devastating.
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying this wasn’t a repeat performance.
“I’m sorry, luv,” he said. “It’s the drawback of the job. You know I’m not a nine-to-fiver.”
A knot in my throat kept me from answering.
“Are you there?”
“Just disappointed,” I admitted, wishing I didn’t have these issues, wanting to put the whole trust thing behind me and move on with Ian. At the ripe age of twenty-six, I knew that you couldn’t follow the advice of those glossy glam magazines and hold out for the perfect relationship. If you were looking for a guy to ace the quiz, you would be looking forever, because those surveys tried to liken human behavior to Martha Stewart’s home-decorating tips. I had learned not to expect perfection, but I’d also promised myself I wouldn’t settle, and Ian was the answer to my twenty-six-year-old heart that longed for fun mixed with passion, topped by the strong possibility of commitment.
“Aw, Madison, don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be together soon. It’s just that I can’t make it down to London to meet you as planned.”
“Ian . . . you mean not even tonight? Or tomorrow?”
“I’ll be waiting for you at the inn. Are you awake enough to remember the instructions? Tomorrow you must take the train to the Newington Inn—write it down, luv. You’re to take the Bo’ness Steam Railway to Falkirk. The innkeeper will meet you there and give you a lift to the inn.”
“Hold on.” I scribbled down the information, still feeling put out. “You know, I come all the way across the ocean, and you can’t even make the drive down to London—”
“I know, I know, I am a louse,” he admitted. “But come north tomorrow and you can beat me up. Really let me have it. You know I’m into that S and M stuff.”
“I’ll let you have it, all right.” I hugged the comforter to my bare chest, missing him. Given the reality of his job here in Britain and mine at the gallery in New York, we hadn’t seen each other for three weeks now, and that was a relatively short span compared to some of our extended separations.
“I miss you, luv,” he said sweetly. “What are you going to do now?”
I stretched under the covers. “Shower and get dressed. Then I’ll hit the bars. Maybe I’ll hook up with a nice London bloke who doesn’t have to work tonight.”
“You’re killing me.”
I smiled. “No, I’m saving that for when I see you.”
“I love you, Madison.”
That lump was back in my throat. You could hate a guy for letting you down, but when he’s your sweetie, you forgive fast. “I love you, too,” I said hoarsely.
And the killing part was that it was true. I loved Ian MacDougal. So much that I’d ditched my usual Christmas routine to come here and give the guy my holiday. It was the most grown-up, big-girl move I’d ever had to make, but then it seemed to be a time of firsts in my life. I loved a man, warts and all, and we’d already worked through a huge bump in the relationship.
I hung up the phone and slid out of bed, pulling the fluffy white duvet along with me to the window. From here, I could see the southwest corner of Kensington Gardens, a city oasis of pale green pasture regal enough to make any girl feel that London was her kingdom. And why shouldn’t I be feeling awesome? I was in love. I’d met my match on the planet, and we were going to make it together, surviving all odds.
Stepping back from the drapes, I dropped the covers to the floor and did a little half-naked happy dance on the bed. This time tomorrow, I’d be with Ian, swooning and singing: “Merry Christmas, darling.”
17
Although I didn’t go out cruising for local blokes as I’d threatened, the night wasn’t a total wash since I managed to hook up with my roommates from home. Sugar’s friend Delia clued us in on a fabulous wine bar, right in our neighborhood, called Le Metro. I hooked up with my friend and roommate Jenna Chang, and we shared a cab there, all the time speculating about how long it would take Sugar to meet a man, whether he would last for more than one night, and whether or not she’d be engaged by New Year’s.
“It happens every year, doesn’t it?” Jenna asked. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but I think Sugar has had a fiancé every New Year’s Eve, like clockwork.”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “You’re right, you’re right.” Jenna usually was. Those exotic brown eyes didn’t miss much, and they glowed with an intelligence that was frightening at times. The child of Korean War survivors, Jenna called herself a twinkie—yellow on the outside, white in the middle. Although she was obliged to attend family gatherings and weekly church services in Queens, the rest of the time Jenna tried her damnedest to be all-American. She was an avid Yankees fan, a secret disco queen, a loyal TV viewer. Jenna was also the most
logical thinker of all my friends, a quality that usually did not work in her favor, as it was impossible to make any sense of the actions and behaviors of our motley crew. Who could explain why Leo taped every soap opera on the air and kept those tapes lined up against a wall of his bedroom, sure that one day he’d find the time to view them? Or me, with my unaffordable shoe collection that choked my closet, threatened to spill out from under my bed, and bled my bank account? Or Sugar, with her take-no-prisoners attitude toward sex? While Jenna searched for meaning in a random universe, I was more likely to scratch my head and mutter, “Go figure.”
“Not that I’m trying to pull a therapist thing here,” Jenna went on. She always denied that she was analyzing us, which she always was, but we sort of enjoyed reaping the benefits of Jenna’s years as an MSW candidate at New York University. Right now she was working her way toward what could be a lucrative private practice as a therapist by counseling patients and their families in the emergency room at Belleview Hospital. Some of her stories were gruesome, but she didn’t seem fazed. Actually, Jenna was driven and motivated and altruistic; she put our decadent me generation, epitomized by Leo, Sugar, and moi, to shame.
Crossing my legs in the cab, I couldn’t help but admire my chunky Steve Madden boots. They were a must for someone in my position—a much-seen, little-noticed assistant who was always on her feet in the swanky downtown gallery. As manager of the Moone Gallery, I was responsible for . . . well, all the shit that the owner Katherine Moone didn’t want to deal with. Whether it meant cleaning the tiny bathroom, making cappuccinos, answering phones, hounding the bookkeeper, or wiping fingerprints off the wall, I was the one in charge, the fucking manager. The most glamorous part of my job was trying to soothe the nerves of struggling artists, who feared rejection, loathed Kathy, worried that the installation of their work was shoddy, and secretly wondered if they could have found a better gallery to show their work.
Did I mention that I hated my job?
But then, that crummy job had given me permission to buy my chunky boots. I’d been able to justify the hefty price tag with a promise that I would write the boots off on my taxes. Okay, the truth was, I loved the boots and planned to leave the damned job, anyway. It was turning out to be a dead-end position, and I had much bigger fish to fry across the Pond. I’d answered an ad for an assistant curator at the Hampstead, a small museum in London, and I’d actually received an e-mail requesting an interview. It was all set: I had an appointment with a Ms. Withers in human resources the week after Christmas. I didn’t want to think about the breathtaking possibilities that might accompany that job and the move to Britain . . . One step at a time, Mod-sin, I told myself. One step at a time.
“I think it’s something that should be addressed,” Jenna said thoughtfully.
“What were we talking about again?” Wincing, I let my fingers close over the heel of one sexy storm-trooper boot and tried to get back into the conversation.
“Sugar’s annual fiance fixation.”
“She’s not really hurting anyone, is she?” I pointed out. “We all have our problems and fixations. Mine being a certain Scotsman who just stood me up for the evening.”
Jenna smiled. “At least you have a real relationship with Ian. Sugar just pulls these guys out of her ass. And she’s hurting herself. It’s become a crutch for her, a way to avoid thinking about her life at a time of year when many people are taking inventory and reassessing.”
“You are so right about that. I hate New Year’s. After Christmas, it’s all a major letdown.” I shivered as charmingly gray, weathered buildings flashed by—a Gaugin sketch of London. Our cab stopped at a light beside one of those amusing double-decker buses that reminded me of the London of my childhood, when I would come here to shop at Harrod’s with Mom and go to Madame Tussaud’s wax museum with my father. Dad loved wax museums. He never got a chance to visit the new one in Manhattan.
“What are you doing for New Year’s?” Jenna asked.
“I’ll be with you guys, I guess. I’m hoping Ian will come to London to join us, but with his job, you never know.” I didn’t add that I was hoping he’d be helping me look for a flat, depending on how well my interview went at the Hampstead Museum. No one knew about my plan to move to London. I didn’t want to spring it on my friends until I’d gotten confirmation—or an engagement ring—from Ian. “I don’t want to lock in anything yet. I’ve learned to downplay the whole auld lang syne deal.”
“Lots of people feel that way, Madison,” Jenna said reassuringly. “But instead of looking back over the past with regret, it can also be a time to look forward. To look ahead—”
“Oh, Jenna, I am always looking ahead.” I sat back against the seat and gave her a buddy nudge. “Sometimes I think I live too far in the future. I can’t stop thinking about next month, next year and Ian and . . . well, mostly Ian.”
“I’m just pissed that we’re not going to get a chance to see him,” Jenna said, squinting at me. “It sounds like you’re getting serious, and we’ve only met him—what? Once? Twice?”
“I barely get to see him myself,” I defended.
She squinched up her face. “Boy hog.”
I snorted, falling back against the seat as the cab pulled up to the curb.
Jenna looked out the window, then turned back to me with a grin. “I’m sorry, our time is up for today. Next time, let’s talk about your issues with Ian. The really juicy stuff.”
I pretended to smack her as she fumbled with the whispery British bills and paid the driver. Then we toppled out of the boxy cab and stepped into Le Metro, a warm space crowded with the welcoming scent of roasted garlic, small bursts of conversation, and clouds of cigarette smoke.
It wasn’t hard to find our girl, Sugar; I just looked to the bar, where three guys bobbed like yellow ducks at an arcade. Yup, Sugar had to be at the center of that crowd. At their periphery was a sultry redhead with gorgeous hair twisted into elaborate clip art. Flaunting a cigarette like a silver-screen star, she seemed to know all the boys.
“That must be Delia,” I said, as Jenna and I let our eyes adjust to the blue, smoky light.
“Right.” Jenna unsnapped her Yankees baseball jacket, letting her hair swing over her black cashmere sweater. “Looks like she’s caught in Sugar’s gravitational pull, along with those male planets.”
“It happens,” I said, making my way over to the group to find Leo huddled on a bar stool beside Sugar. “Leo?”
His fingers cradled a tequila shooter from a lineup on the bar. “Woo-hoo! You guys are late. The party has started.”
“I can see that.” I tucked my jacket on the back of his bar stool and picked up a shotglass from the bar. “To good friends, and to a white Christmas!” The tequila cut a swath of fire down my throat as the anonymous chorus of Sugar’s males chimed in “Here, here!” and applauded.
Leo cocked a drunken eyebrow at me. “A white Christmas? Who the fuck are you, part of the Bob Hope Christmas Tour?”
“Everyone loves a white Christmas,” I defended myself. Just because I wasn’t home for Christmas didn’t mean I’d abandoned my yuletide convictions. “It’s cozy and charming... and George Clooney’s aunt sang so fabulously in the movie.”
“It doesn’t snow in London!” Leo said indignantly. He turned to a guy in Sugar’s magnetic field and asked, “Does it?”
I slid the empty shotglass on the bar and ordered a glass of chardonnay. “What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked Leo. “You’re supposed to be in Lisbon, cavorting with Wolfie.”
“My flight was cancelled. The next available seat is tomorrow morning, crack of dawn. So we decided the only way to travel is to party until four A.M., at which time I’ll take the tube out to Heathrow and arrive in Wolfie’s arms totally wasted. Making a fine impression on his brother, the crowned prince of Fuckenstein.”
“He’ll love you,” I said. “Every crowned prince wants his bro to have a drunken gay lover. It’s in the royal bylaws, I think.
” I realized I was shouting, trying to speak above the music and loud voices.
A slender, perfectly manicured hand reached out of the man-crowd and squeezed my arm. “He’s not drunk,” Sugar confided. “He’s got a long way to go, and it’s going to be up to you to keep our Leo well-sedated so that he doesn’t wallow in missing-Wolfie misery.”
“Hey, I’m not the girl guide tonight,” I insisted. “I’m the walking wounded, too. Ian canceled on me. Doesn’t that account for something?”
“You’ll see him tomorrow,” Leo pointed out.
“But you’ll see Wolf tomorrow!” I countered.
Sugar tilted her head at me. “Sorry, honey, but the walking wounded part’s been cast. You’ll have to read for the loyal best friend.” She looked stunning in her recently straightened and highlighted fuck-me hair worn short but teased a bit on top to give her that Diana Ross vibe. The tiny crystals dangling from her ears matched her red V-neck sweater, which probably matched her lingerie or handbag or shoes. Sugar was always totally put together. She spun her stool toward me, whipping those long legs my way. The rest of us wore jeans, but there was Sugar in her short, pleated plaid skirt with a slit up the side. All she needed was a little Peter Pan collar and a necktie to complete the fuck-the-schoolgirl fantasy.
“Can we get a table?” I asked no one in particular as one of Sugar’s entourage stepped on my toe. He didn’t apologize, didn’t even look back, and I swore to seek him out and wreak painful vengeance if he nicked the smooth black leather of my boot.
“Oh, wait! I love this song!” Sugar jumped off her bar stool, spread her slender arms wide, and crooned: “ ‘I believe I can fly . . . I believe I can touch the sky. I think about it every night and day, spread my wings and fly away.’”
“I believe I need another drink,” Leo said. I nodded, as the rest of the crowd watched Sugar’s performance, spell-bound. She picked up a bottle of ale and used it as a pretend microphone, leading the crowd as they began to sway in time to the music. Ludicrous, I know, but Sugar is the kind of person who can stop traffic on Fifth Avenue with an air-guitar rendition of “We Got It Goin’ On!”
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 17