by Ana Simons
I let out a small laugh, the relaxed attitude and her friendly manner making me smile for the first time today. The moment is interrupted by a group of male guests invading the bar, their laughs and loud voices along with the music coming from the dining room filling the air.
“This is getting too crowded, how about we sit over there?” She gestures to the dark leather couches placed in a quieter corner of the bar.
I give her a tight smile. “Listen, I don’t mean to sound rude, but I–” My mobile buzzes from inside my jacket pocket and a feeling of momentary relief courses through me. “Give me a minute, I need to take this.” It should give me time to find the best words to tell the woman before me I just want to be alone.
Momentary, indeed.
Tension coils in my gut when I see it’s Josephine. Damn it, I totally forgot to return the bloody call, the one I received before the ceremony started.
A few seconds into our conversation and I have to release a heavy breath to keep my cool. “Stop and listen to me. I’m sorry, but I can’t–” Leave earlier and go grab a drink with her.
“Damn you and your pathetic excuses!” she cuts me off, yelling. Considering the volume, I can perfectly imagine her cheeks flushed with anger and the veins on her neck bulging tightly.
I lean my elbows against the wooden countertop and pinch the bridge of my nose, the ache at the back of my eyes returning at a maddening pace. “Jo, please. I’m at my best friend’s wedding, I can’t just sneak away.”
Despite the soft and conciliatory tone, she screams even louder than before, “I don’t care! You’re a stupid, dumbass prick!”
All right. I am. If it makes you feel better.
Note to self: urgently review the terms of our arrangement.
Correction, terminate it.
Blondie or whatever-her-name-is taps me on the arm, I’m still talking on the phone. I raise my hand, informing her of the obvious: I can’t get back to her right now.
Blondie insists. “Listen. They’re calling for you on the speaker.”
“Wait a sec, Jo.” I focus on the amplified female voice coming from the dining room. It’s Olivia’s. “I’ll call you right back.” I hang up, cutting the shrill voice that’s still yelling on the other side of the line.
Olivia again. “Brian Anderson? Come over here! The next music is on you, handsome man! Where are you?”
I draw a deep breath and hold it for a moment, as I try to decode her words and the sounds coming from the keyboard synth. When I do, I remain inert for several beats, hoping I’m not hearing it right.
For Christ’s sake, it’s that music from ten-sodding-years ago, Aserejé or whatever it’s called! A crazy song I was always dancing to that last summer. Some stupid moves I probably thought would make me look cool, I don’t know. What I do know is the damn song made the one-hit wonder Las Ketchup famous and turned me into a complete moron.
“Brian? You have three seconds to move your butt here. Or shall I call you by your artistic name?” Olivia stresses those last two words with amused irony and I stand up immediately.
Oh shit, no!
I run like crazy before some killer acid reflux leads me to death, and finally, enter the dining room. Everyone’s laughing and applauding. Jimmy too, that bastard. I shoot an intimidating glance at Olivia. There’s a playful smile dancing across her lips as she calls me with her index finger.
Damn you, crazy woman!
After returning a totally forced smile, I run a hand through my hair seeking to calm down my nerves and the frantic beating of my heart. Then I stick both hands into the pockets of my trousers, in a hopefully successful attempt to look cool and relaxed.
Having no way to escape, I give in to the miserable predicament I’m in, and begin to pace the room towards her with slow steps.
The devil in disguise, on the other hand, looks pretty satisfied. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a huge welcome to Brian Anderson, who’s teaching us some fine moves tonight!” She crisscrosses her arms, swings her hips and wags her hands up in the air, mimicking the original choreography. “Come on. It will be fun,” she mouths.
What? You sloshed?
I keep smiling, an absolutely cynical smile. As if making me wait two hours wasn’t bad enough, now this? I feel like strangling her with my bare hands.
I suspect this woman will be the death of me, but one thing is certain: no way I’m going to dance that shit, I promise myself bravely.
7 Deep green depths
I keep walking, snaking through the tables placed around the dance floor. The band has been on repeat mode, playing the first chords of the damn song over and over again, allowing me the time to cross the room and finally join the devil in a sexy dress.
Our eyes meet and I throw her one of those menacing looks, the kind that should let her know that I’ll turn this into an eye-for-an-eye-and-a-tooth-for-a-tooth battle if she doesn’t back off immediately.
She ignores me, though, and keeps giggling, absolutely amused.
Is this your idea of fun, Olivia? To make a fool out of me in front of all these people?
The crowd is clapping and cheering in anticipation, tapping me on the back as I pass by, clearly thrilled about the show they’re about the watch. So much for male solidarity, even the guys seem to be cackling like stupid hens. Bunch of morons!
A few steps more and I’m there. Olivia hands the microphone to one of the band members and winks at me; I’m pretty certain I’ve just seen a mischievous twinkle accompanying that crooked smile of hers.
“Sure you want to do this?” I ask her without voicing it, only with my lips.
She nods enthusiastically before letting out a light-hearted chuckle.
As I come nearer, the air around us gets heavier, such is the huge, icy tension rising within me. I’m on my last nerve. Right now I don’t know if I want to kick her butt and push her off a cliff or to drown her in the Thames. Probably both, just to make sure.
Without ever breaking the eye contact, I slowly remove my jacket, which I hang on the back of one of the nearby chairs, loosen my tie and roll up my sleeves. Then I jerk my head to the guy on the drums letting him know I’m ready.
Okay, let’s do this. If she thought I was going to be the laughing-stock of the evening, she couldn’t be more wrong!
Finally, I join her in the middle of the dance floor and the room gets dim, a splash of light projecting over us.
Her eyes lock on mine and my core tightens; for a moment I want to lose myself in them again. She keeps smiling, on her lips the same mischievous and defying grin.
Damn, her naughty smile is just so–
I don’t care, I give my head a severe shake. I’m on the warpath with this woman, no way I’m letting her mess with me.
Catching her by surprise, I tug at her hand firmly and spin her around to face me. Olivia tenses her muscles and tries to release herself, but I hold her in place.
“Brian! What are you doing?” she asks, her green eyes riveted on mine, narrowing, her smile withering.
I wink at her, teasing her, and slide one arm around her waist, pulling her body against mine. “Oh, you didn’t think I was going to dance that crap all by myself, did you? Come on, sweetie, the audience is just dying to watch the little show you set up for them.” I shoot her another quick, sardonic grin.
She looks pale as death, her smile gone as I hold her steady under my fierce gaze, our faces a breath’s width apart.
I put her left hand on my shoulder myself and crush her to me, this time even closer, my lips brushing her hair, our bodies moulding to each other. Then I lean in, close enough to make sure my breath caresses the skin of her neck, “Wanted us to dance, smartass? Now, dance! Any salsa moves will do!”
There’s a mix of shock, surprise and nervousness weighing her features, I can read it so well, but she disguises it with a wide cynical grin. “I’ll get back to you later, sweetie, don’t you worry.”
And here it goes.
I softe
n my grip, pull and start to lead her, defining the quick pace and the shimmying movements, claiming the whole dance floor as ours. She doesn’t let me down and plays my game, spinning, dipping and swivelling her hips in sensual moves. And she sure knows how to do it!
The crowd stands up and screams effusively, seeming to be in some sort of trance-like state. I get carried away too. The high point of the music erupts, imposing a frenetic rhythm, and I release her waist to hold her hand and fling her around and make her spin. Once, twice, thrice. And then once again—her long dress flowing, her hair waving in the whirlwind motion, her legs moving quickly with insane fluidity.
There’s a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, she’s fully exhausted, wildly breathless. I’m pushing her to her limit.
Wonderful! Suck it up, sweetie!
The crowd is euphoric, definitely gone wild too, chanting my name, cheering, whistling and clapping to the convulsing rhythms. If Olivia weren’t about to crack, she would be outlining her plan to have me shot, I know—and I’m loving it.
With a triumphal attitude, I glance around and wave at everyone, inviting them to join us, which they do, immediately. Women first, the respective husbands with a few seconds delay—after the usual scary-as-hell threatening looks. And they all follow, submissively. If they don’t, the chances they won’t get laid tonight increase dramatically, they all know it. It’s a sort of universal truth.
After a short while, the dance floor is packed, everyone is dancing and spinning, following the electrifying sound of the loud music. We mingle with the crowd and immerse in it, slowing our pace gradually until we’re not dancing anymore. Only swaying our bodies totally out of tempo in the centre, oblivious to the mass that moves around us.
My hand is still holding hers, but it’s only my gaze that’s keeping her so close. Our breathing is intertwining, her chest is thumping against mine and, damn, I can’t take my eyes off her again. Off her eyes, off her mouth, off the lip she’s nibbling nervously.
For a few moments, we remain like this, until I can’t hold myself anymore and take her head in my hands, tangling my fingers in her hair. With my eyes stubbornly lingering on her mouth, I slide my hand forward and brush my thumb across her lower lip. Her eyelids drift closed as if surrendering to my touch.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” She smiles apologetically, fixing her eyes on mine again. There’s a nervous expression on her face I recognise all too well.
Though desperate to claim her lips, I fight the urge and rest my forehead against hers. “No. You were right, that was fun. With the added bonus, we all now know you’re still as crazy as a goddamn loon.”
“I looked all over, where were you? I even thought you might be gone already...”
“And this was the best plan you could come up with to find me?”
“I guess it worked… I finally made it. To get back to you.”
The deeper meaning behind her words stirs something within me, the emotions welling up in my chest since I first saw her earlier today—actually, since the day I left for New York if I’m honest with myself—about to get the best of me. Dipping my head a little further, I breathe against her mouth, “I guess you did…”
Surprisingly, she neither pushes me back nor sends me to hell, she only keeps staring at me, her breathing slowing down and deepening, her lips subtly parting.
Help me God, if I don’t manage to get some sense into my head in the course of the next five seconds, the caveman within me is going to kiss her again after all these years, right here and right now. And then I’m going to drag her by the hair straight to my cave and make love to her the whole bloody night. Until she can’t take it anymore. Or I can’t.
But something holds me back. No, this is Olivia we’re talking about. She’s not like other women. Never was, never will be. With her, I can’t afford to screw it all up.
I quickly abandon that primal mental picture and bend closer down only to pose a simpler question, “How about we make our escape now? Outside, to the terrace? To have a drink and catch up a little bit?”
She looks up with her amazing green eyes—deep, green depths that always had the power to undo me—and shakes her head, her lips drawn into a thin line.
“No?” I’m so disappointed, I probably look like a poor kid who has just found out Santa isn’t real, that he’s just some random fat guy, and that the entire family has been shitting you for the last nine or ten years of your life.
But then she rises on her toes, inviting me to lower my head again, because she has something to say to me, “Take me away. Take me away from this place.”
8 Nellie Dean
“…In that case, call us when you’re back in London, will you, darling?” Kate tells Olivia as they leave the ladies’ room.
They’re so wrapped up in their conversation they don’t even notice I’m already close nearby, waiting for Olivia, holding her scarf and her coat.
Tucking her clutch under her arm, Olivia responds with a smile and a quick nod.
A final goodbye hug.
“Can I give you a little unsolicited advice?” Kate asks, with a stern look, when they pull away. “Steer clear from trouble.”
Olivia’s smile fades into a frown. “What does that mean?”
“Charming his way into bed with every woman he wants, that’s what he probably knows best.”
As soon as the words hit me, a violent shiver moves through my body.
“And I’m pretty certain he’s an amazing flirt—Damn, the man is not just good-looking, he’s hot as sin!—but he’s also a hopeless case of messed-up-beyond-repair. Unattainable, no one can reach him. And, darling, what do you do with guys like these? You drop them before they drop you.”
Boiling inside, I move fast enough to cut off the insane conversation and rest a hand on the small of Olivia’s back. “Here you are. Can we go now?” I ask curtly, my eyes shooting a hard glance Kate’s way. You think you know everything, don’t you?
With a shadow of apprehension clouding her face, Olivia looks up and nods.
“Good.” Without ever taking my hand from her back, I guide her to the front door.
*
With Kate’s words still pounding in my head, I beckon Olivia to the upholstered seat by the window. Smiling, she glances around as if taking it all in, the pub’s dark, cosy atmosphere and the soulful music playing in the background. We’re at the Nellie Dean, my favourite pub in the Soho quarter.
“So tell me, what have you been up to, Dr Burke?”
“Why don’t we start with you, Brian Anderson? How’s life these days?”
“Working a lot, for the most part. Also going to everyone else’s wedding and enjoying the free champagne.”
“May I tell you a secret?” A guilty smile peeks through.
“What? You had a little too much of it today? I know. Holding your liquor was never your forte.” A sly smirk and I turn to ask for two pints. “Or could it be your secret is you hate weddings as much as I do? A bunch of folks getting all tearful because the lovely bride is being taken away? For Christ’s sake, this is no longer a business transaction between two men, is it? Why don’t you walk up by yourselves?”
She chuckles. “That’s just one out of the many weird things about it! You know why they say it gives bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before the ceremony?”
Why in the hell didn’t I just kiss her? I ask myself again, the question consuming me since we left the wedding. No idea whatsoever. Hard to explain, really. Probably because male dumbassery has no limits, I may as well admit.
“Can hardly wait for the explanation, Dr Burke.” I wink over to her, leaning back in my seat, feeling the tension dissipate.
“An old thing to guarantee men don’t back down. When the bride removes the veil and you get to see her for the first time, the agreement is already sealed. If you end up with some ugly ass woman, you can’t run for the hills anymore. You’re doomed to suck it up for the rest of your days!”
I let out a breathy laugh and a few heads turn in our direction. And we go on, amused and relaxed, discussing other insane wedding traditions and laughing our heads off at some pretty crazy wedding photos we find online.
Suddenly she falls silent, on her face an introspective expression. “Now, seriously. I’m beginning to think that’s the biggest lie two people will ever tell each other in their lives, I do. And that’s sad.”
“Why would you think that?”
Looking down at her drink, she begins to draw circles around the rim of the glass, on her face traces of what seems hurt. “Look around you. How many relationships you know of actually ended in happily ever after?”
I shrug. Not many, in fact.
“See? That’s why I feel a bit of a hypocrite when I go to weddings these days; down there we always suspect it won’t last, don’t we?” She empties her glass and forces a smile I know is not sincere. “Though I always have a blast watching a half shit-faced Uncle Will attack the shrimp tower!”
I feel like asking what happened to her, to make her think like that, but I revise my strategy just in time and go for something far simpler, “Another beer?”
She nods and begins to subtly sway her body and drum her fingers to the soulful music. I raise my empty glass, wordlessly asking for a refill.
“Honestly, is there anything more barbaric than throwing the bouquet to figure out who’ll be the next bint to get hitched?” she asks. “And the garter belt thing? The barmpot who came up with such idea should be hung with it.”
I nod.
The friendly waitress leaves another two pints of Guinness. Olivia clicks her glass with mine and drinks half of it in one gulp. “Did you know that the average wedding day will cost you more than £20,000? What a miserable waste of money. The places we could visit, the things we could do with it... Hey, did the cat eat your tongue or something?”