by Ana Simons
“I’m listening. To you, to your… interesting perspective. Coming from a woman, it’s kind of amusing, really.” Well, it is. At last, someone who understands my point.
She giggles, a nervous giggle, though. “But, seriously, isn’t it the weirdest and most retro celebration? Women in white dresses pretending to be virgins, who are about to be given away by their fathers?”
I almost ask her if she’s been avoiding her own wedding, but I bite my tongue, instead. I’m still trying to figure out how I’d like the night to end.
Right now, I just want to keep listening and looking at her, at her slightly parted lips humming this song, her amazing eyes, her slender hand inadvertently drawing circles on the coaster.
“So, what happened? Your father told us… or maybe it was Jimmy, I don’t know anymore.” I feign nonchalance. “Someone mentioned you weren’t coming.”
“It’s always so difficult to take a couple of days off in August, you know. We’re always short of staff. But at the last minute, I did manage to pull it off...” She says vaguely, looking around, everyone in high spirits. “And what else did he tell you?”
Nothing else, I shake my head. And this is the actual truth—Jimmy’s my best friend, we share a lot of things, and he probably knows me better than I do myself, but his ‘Spanish cousin’ has always been a sort of taboo we prefer to avoid.
“How come we never met again in all these years, Brian?”
“I don’t know. It just didn’t happen, I guess.”
This time, however, I am lying. At the time I was furious at Olivia and decided I didn’t want to see her anymore. And from then on, I never returned down there with my folks and, besides, in the following years I was always too busy with some summer crush and didn’t want to leave the city. And the few times she came up for Christmas, I always found a way to steer clear of Jimmy’s house. That’s what happened: I’ve done my best to avoid her. Eventually, life took its course, I moved on and forgot about her.
“And how come you’re still single, Brian Anderson? What’s wrong with these English women?” She clicks her tongue, amused, giving me a friendly tap on the hand.
“How about you? Why did you come alone?” Where’s the big-shot doctor you were dating?
She brushes back her hair in a nervous fashion and steers her gaze down, remaining silent for a moment.
“Liv?”
“I guess I may as well tell you, you’ll find out anyway.” She clears her throat. “I came alone because the lying cheating bastard who was supposed to be my husband by now was screwing around with half of the ER nurses. And that’s not petty gossip, hospital tittle-tattle, Brian. I caught him with his pants down in the meds room!”
“I’m so sorry.” I put my hand over hers, a spontaneous, endearing gesture of comfort I can’t quite explain.
“Six years, can you believe it? Six years of my life! That’s how long I’d waited for that prick! Only to find out he’d been cheating on me the whole time...” Her voice breaks. “People warned me, you know, but I didn’t believe. So, I really have no one to blame but myself.” A deep sigh and she stands, my eyes following her movement. “Come on, Brian. Let’s go upstairs, to the pool table.”
*
Damn, she has already sunk five balls in a row, is getting ready to finish the game and I’m just standing here like a berk. God, have mercy on me, watching her like this, bent over the pool table in an excruciatingly sexy dress, is making it hard to concentrate and my mouth dry at the sight of it.
I take an extra-long swig of my beer.
It’s official: she’s gorgeous. A total knockout. And I can’t help it, imagining how it would be, me undressing her really slowly and– Oh no, I can’t.
Angling my head, hopefully in a not too obvious way, I watch her sprawled over the table, her butt hanging out, her knockers swaying freely as she pulls off what could possibly be her last shot. It’s mind-boggling and I need to take a deep breath to keep my cool.
And the black ball rolls and tumbles right into the pocket. What the fu...
“That was fun, Liv. The only two shots I got were immensely fun!” I huff in pretend annoyance.
She makes her little happy dance and demands I high-five her while my male pride is plunging into some dark hole of my soul.
“You’re mean, woman. You’re downright evil!”
She shakes her head, faked pity flickering in her eyes. “Brian Anderson, but can’t you do any better than this? I’m almost feeling sorry for you...”
I’m sure you are. You wicked devil.
Women and pool tables are a tricky territory, it’s awfully difficult to keep the focus. To be honest, I’ve been fantasising about it the whole time, how fun it would be if she had no bloody idea of how it works. I played it in my mind each time she executed a shot: I would move right behind her, pull her close and bend her low over the table, my shaft pressing against her bottom. Then she would shiver when my right hand moved down her back, along her arm to the end of the stick–
“Hey, sweetie, ready for another beating?” Olivia winks, taunting me with a wide ironic grin, as she slides and racks the fifteen balls in the triangle.
“Sure. Bring it on!” I sip my beer and wink back.
Sure, I’m ready. I’m always ready to watch you definitely overdressed for this place, but still bend, stretch and twist until my poor heart can’t take it anymore.
She chalks up, throwing me a confident and defiant smirk, and bends over, narrowing her eyes towards down the end of the cue stick, examining the angle of her shot.
I hear the balls striking, but again I’m too distracted.
Apparently, she has just sunk two balls, the solid ones, she lets me know, rejoicing at the achievement. She immediately moves around the table to prepare her next shot. But first, she lays the cue stick on the green velvet surface, and ties her hair in a messy ponytail, teasing me with a smile that’s full of mischief.
Bent over the table, she blows one loose strand of hair off her face. Then, with one eye closed, the other aiming at ball number five, which is sitting right at the edge of the far corner pocket, she strikes hard on the white ball.
My head cocks to one side following the movement of the ball, the sardonic grin on my face widening as I watch it approaching the hole.
“Shit,” she mutters when she misses her shot.
Okay, my turn now. Do I go easy on her and let her win again or do I end up with her happiness? Easy. It’s about time I keep my wits about me and pay attention to the goddamn game.
I quickly sink four balls in a row, then stop to give her a triumphant stare. “Feeling dizzy, sweetie? Don’t tell me, you thought I’d go easy on you, didn’t you?”
She frowns. Her mood is sinking too, I believe.
Back to the game. I expertly set myself up for each of the next two shots which, obviously, I don’t miss.
“Still feeling sorry for me?” I boast, giving her another look of vainglory.
“You’re an awful person, Brian Anderson.”
“And you’re a sore loser.”
I walk slowly around the table, pushing her gently backwards as I pass by, taking my time to make the final shot. The mischievous smile I neither can nor want to avoid is getting on her last frayed nerve—which, dammit, is really turning me on.
I look up at her again and waste no time finishing off the game, knocking that last striped ball into the pocket next to right where she’s standing.
Caging her against the pool table with both hands and with my gaze lingering on her mouth, I ask, “Why do you keep messing with me, sweetie? You’ll never stand a chance! Ever.” My eyes fix on hers. “Now I know why you didn’t want to come to the wedding. You knew we’d meet again after all these years and you’d have your ass kicked!”
My playful statement is met with silence. Maybe I didn’t push her just a little; there’s a mix of hurt and contained anger reflected on her face.
“Liv, I’m joking.”
&nb
sp; “That must have been it. You’re such a genius, aren’t you? Maybe you think you do, but you don’t know anything about me. I’m not that silly little girl anymore.” She releases herself and heads to the cue hanger, on the opposite corner of the room.
Apparently, the game is over.
Women are indeed highly complex, strange beings. First, they burn their bras, blowhard they don’t need men, and tear us down with anthems of independence, a lot of feminist male-bashing gibberish, demanding equal treatment, opportunities and rights. Fine, it’s absolutely fair, nothing to argue there.
But then they expect chivalry from us, get moody if we don’t act like gentlemen, holding doors open, pulling out chairs, protecting and standing up for them? They still want us to play the ‘knight in shining armour’ part and let them win some stupid game? Is that it? I don’t know, but sometimes it seems women want to be treated like guys, except when they don’t want to—pretty logical, huh?
“Take me back to my uncle’s? Please.”
I hold her chin and lift her face, trying to get a read on her thoughts. She’s clearly distressed, holding back the tears that are welling up in her eyes. I go with my first instinct and hold her, burying my fingers in her hair, rocking her gently.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
“Never mind.” She relaxes against me, accepting my touch, her hands fisted in my shirt. “Please, let us go. It’s been such a long, exhausting day...”
And I’m such an idiot. It dawns on me the last place she’d rather be was at a family gathering, having to explain where’s the long-time boyfriend everyone thought was perfect, going all over it again, remembering her own wedding, the one she planned and dreamt about but never happened.
It’s almost eleven. Her dress is fluttering in the cool night air, the dim lamplight shadowing her beautiful face.
I cover her with my jacket and wrap my arm around her shoulders. Stroking her face, I leave a long kiss on the top of her head. “Come, I’ll take you home.”
And we start to walk down Dean Street towards my car.
9 Thunder within
“Flying back tomorrow already?” I ask Olivia, trying to fill the heavy silence that weights the air as we head west towards Holland Park, to her uncle’s. She’s been mostly quiet, pensive, looking out the car window.
She hums in agreement, but neither looks at me nor makes any effort to engage in conversation and make the short ride a tad less difficult. In fact, not many words have been exchanged since we left the Nellie Dean and I’m trying not to force anything.
I tighten my fingers around the wheel seeking to release the tension. Though my face gives nothing away, my head’s a mess. How come in a world of seven billion people I’m ending this sodding day with the one single woman I cannot have?
I’m thinking straight, aren’t I? I mean, lightning isn’t supposed to strike twice in the same spot, everyone knows about that, it’s common sense. Well, except when it forgets where it struck last, I guess. But I haven’t forgotten. In fact, it struck so hard it almost knocked me down, and the damage it caused is still vividly imprinted in my memory.
“What time then?”
“In the afternoon,” she murmurs so quietly under her breath, I can barely understand the words.
I turn on the radio, thinking to fill in the uncomfortable space between us with music. Only Love Can Hurt Like This begins to pulse through the speakers.
Great, as if the mood in here weren’t odd and depressed enough.
I quickly change the station.
“No, leave it!” Olivia emerges from her thoughts, hovering her hand over the radio, trying to find the key to set it back.
I control the radio system directly from the steering wheel and do what she asks.
She gives me a thin smile, which I half-heartedly return, and then straightens back up. With her head leant back against the seat and her eyes closed, she asks politely, “Mind turning it up just a bit louder?”
“Sure. You like this one?”
It would be nice to get an answer for a change, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she just hums the song, sometimes singing along.
I force myself to focus on the road, only on the road, but the truth is I’m losing it. It’s sending me into a frenzy, the fact I’m running out of time and don’t really know what to do next. I’m seriously thinking about pulling some crazy stunt, like... lose myself in the place where I’ve lived my entire life?
But isn’t that the stupidest idea?
It certainly is, but I’m all strung out, barely able to get my thoughts and emotions under control.
Damn it, I should just leave her at her uncle’s once and for all and forget about it! When I see her again, maybe sometime around 2030, I’m certain I’ll be over this sad episode.
I glance at her again. She’s still singing with her eyes closed, on her face is the same enigmatic expression. And my mind starts reeling, imagining there’s some sort of mutual electrifying tension, one that would make me slam hard on the brakes and pull over to the side. To kiss her. Her temples, her eyelids, the cute freckled bridge of her nose. Her perfect mouth. Her neck, her shoulder—the exposed shoulder that’s been teasing me all day long. I imagine my hands meandering down her body, her lips murmuring my name, asking me to take her home and–
Stop thinking about the 375 ways this could go badly and do something!
What if she snaps?
Screw it if she goes ballistic! What is there for you to lose? Basically nothing, I suppose.
Without giving it any further thought, I do pull over.
“Olivia.” I stare intently into her eyes, trying to read the emotions behind them. She looks confused, but remains silent, in all probability expecting me to explain what in the hell is going on here.
Then I take her hand in mine, secretly hoping she doesn’t notice it’s actually shaking. “I’m still a good listener, so why don’t you tell me about it? What’s troubling you?”
Silence engulfs us again as she stares at me, her unwavering face unreadable. Eventually, she pulls her hand away, nervously. “What’s troubling me? I’ll tell you what it is: it’s my feet. They’re swollen, these shoes are killing me and I want my clogs back! Goddam killer heels, they’re driving me bloody mad!” She kicks them off, forcing out a chuckle I know is not sincere.
“Olivia, look at me.” My tone takes a hard edge. I know her better than that.
Avoiding my gaze, she sags back into the seat and closes her eyes. “It’s nothing, I’m just tired. It’s been such a long day and I can’t wait to take a shower and crawl into a bed.”
“Can I invite you for a quick drink? My flat’s right here around the corner.”
Her chest expands on a deep breath before she turns to face me. “I’m sorry, but I’m so tired…” she says softly, the awareness she won’t come, not in a million years, slowly dawning in my churning gut.
I let the silence hang between us for a moment. “It’s not that I’m asking you to spend the weekend in Paris with me. It’s just a drink. Who knows when we’ll see each other again?”
“Well, but maybe you should. Invite me to Paris.” She smiles, a small pained smile.
I’d love that.
Indecision flickers across her face for a few beats, then she squints at her watch. She’s pondering the possibility and I immediately feel a blast of adrenaline racing through my veins.
“Okay, but one drink only!” She agrees, holding her index finger up.
My thoughts race back and forth in a wild rush and I can’t help imagining how it’d be if we didn’t make it to my apartment. As soon as the lift doors slid shut, to hell with the wine, compliments and subtle flirting! I’d press the full length of her body with mine, I’d dive my hands into her hair, to hold her head steady as I kiss her hard and deep. I’d whisper into her mouth how desperate I’ve been the entire day to have her back in my arms. And I’d eagerly seek her breasts, I’d fondle them, I’d tease them. I’d
have her up against the wall until she gasped for breath and moaned in surrender because I’d made her lose track of time and space and–
“BRIAN! Watch out!”
Reacting purely on instinct, I hit the brakes to stop the car and only then look around. Shit, I’ve almost run a red light and headed on out into a junction in Kensington High Street.
“So sorry, you all right?” I ask, most certainly with a guilty expression on my face.
She nods, blowing out a breath of relief.
“Here we are,” I announce a couple of minutes later as I park in front of my apartment in Warwick Gardens. I’m playing it cool, but the truth is, I’m overly anxious. In fact, I’m half scared, and half desperate at the possibility of spending the night with her.
I rush to hold the car door open for her, but she doesn’t wait and gets out first, barefoot, one hand holding her small handbag and sandals, the other grabbing the hem of her dress.
Placing my hand on the small of her back, I guide her through the entrance door towards the lift, my eyes caressing her face when she gives me a soft smile. No one would know, but my heart is stomping, kicking hard against my chest, such is the thrill of anticipation rushing through me.
10 Unfinished business
“This is such a lovely neighbourhood. How long have you been living here?” Olivia asks, looking at her reflection in the lift mirror. “Oh my, look at this! At my Halloween eyes!” She takes a step forward and analyses some non-existent dark circles around her eyes, the kind of thing only women themselves can see, I think. “I’m as good as ready to go trick-or-treating…”
“Little over a year ago.” When the whole bloody nightmare happened and I moved out. “And you look splendid, trust me.” I force the bad memories away and have my hand moving in long, gentle strokes up and down her back.
She elbows me playfully. “You’re a terrible liar. But I’ll pretend to believe you.”
We’re standing side by side, my hand still resting on the small of her back. I’m fighting the urge to grab her in a less subtle way and finally pull her so she’s facing me. My eyes, wild with a need I can hardly control, meet hers in the mirror. I wonder if she’s noticing the state I’m in. Probably she isn’t.