Free Falling

by Ana Simons

  I lie down on my stomach and flip through a children’s book with some farm animals. Josh lies right next to me.

  “Uncle Brian?”

  “Yes?”

  “Once I’m done with the 3rd grade, I’m going to find me a wife.”

  I snort. “Why, Champ?”

  Josh shrugs, apparently forgets about my question, and carries on with his inquiry. “Why don’t you get a wife and learn how to rub too? Then you could plant a baby boy seed in her.” He blows out some air and pouts. “This sucks! Look around: there are only girls, no boys to play with me. It’s really ruining my life, you have no idea!”

  I can’t help but chuckle at his misery. Seriously, what’s going on in this kid’s head is often as dumbfounding as it is hilarious. I’m still smiling, genuinely amused at his innocence, and trying to find the right words to comfort the little guy, when someone sneaks up from behind and sits Emma on my back.

  I tilt my head.

  Liv!

  In a V-neck, sleeveless greenish dress that matches the vibrant colour of her eyes, the skirt, loose and slightly above her knees, her hair pulled up in a perfect ponytail, her elegant look completed with a long chain necklace.

  My pulse quickens and a lump of emotion blocks my throat. Whether it’s because she looks so amazing or if it’s the filigree heart pendant dangling over her perky breasts, I don’t know. I gave it to her many years ago. That she still has it and chose to wear it today is a complete surprise. Not sure what to think of it.

  Swinging her body to the rhythm, she begins to snap her fingers to R. City’s last hit. The twins are ecstatic, giggling with their toothless faces. Priceless. The whole scene, she and the kids. I grin to myself because I can’t help it: I’m crazy hooked on the four of them.

  Eventually, she sits down and murmurs into my ear, “They look good on you, you know?”

  “You don’t have babies, do you?” Josh tugs at her arm and asks, staring at her intently.

  “No, sweetie, I don’t.”

  “Shit! So you don’t know how the rubbing thing works either.”

  I shush him. “Don’t say shit. Your mother will freak out.”

  “I don’t get this either: how come they invented these words if we’re not allowed to use them?” He stands up, seemingly frustrated, and points at Olivia. “Going to ask your mother, about the rubbing. I needed to speak with her about the fish anyway.”

  Olivia watches him heading inside and then looks at me confused; I just shrug and pretend I’m as surprised as she is. “Oh, kids! Just leave him...”

  In the meantime, Emma runs to the playhouse, the twins seem busy playing in their little world and Olivia lies down, by my side, with her eyes closed, facing the sun, her delicate fingers caressing the heart-shaped pendant.

  I look at her, in silence, trying to make some sense of all this, last night, what I’m feeling. Eventually—well, damn it, she’ll be gone in a couple of hours anyway—I hold her hand.

  “Can I ask you out for dinner? Maybe later this week or so?”

  She breaks into laughter. “I don’t exactly live across the river, you silly!”

  “I know. But don’t you think we should talk about what almost happened last night?”

  She remains silent for a moment, probably musing over my question. After turning on her side, she looks at me with a sad smile. “I’m sorry if I got carried away, but it didn’t mean anything. I’m a walking mess, Brian…”

  I’m certain there’s disappointment written all over my face. “But we never managed to talk about what happened back then.”

  Bloody hell! My parents and Jimmy’s brother, with his family. All at the same time, huge commotion and clatter on the deck. What a nightmare!

  Olivia is about to get up and leave, but I hold her hand firmly. “It’s only a dinner, Liv. Not a proposal.”

  “Brian, why would we delve into the past? We were just kids, let us leave it at that.”

  “Liv?”

  “I’m so glad we met this time. I really, really liked seeing you again,” she says, her gaze meeting mine, her warm breath brushing against my face. “And I’ll make sure I’ll call you when I come over again. It’s a promise. But now I think I should go.”

  I let go of her hand and stay here, frozen, watching her walk away. And it consumes me in a way I no longer thought possible, this feeling my life has just crumbled into tiny pieces all over again.

  15 Unwanted memories

  ‘Brian, tu eres tonto o qué?’

  Raquel’s ear-splitting yell when Josh asked her about the mysteries of baby making, followed by Olivia’s wide and loud chuckle, are still rambling around in my head. That and the memory of the moment she left us, smiling and waving, her eyes studying me with what seemed a sort of longing. What I wouldn’t have given for a glimpse into her thoughts that day.

  The cursor on the computer blinks at me and all I can do is stare. I’m supposed to be working on the restoration project of an art gallery in Edinburgh, yet here I am, obsessing, consumed by thoughts of her.

  I’m trying hard to forget what happened, just like she asked, but damn it, it’s nearly a week already and I feel my brain has been hijacked. I’m either revisiting distant memories or vacantly gazing through the office window, observing the people going in and out of the Penderel’s Oak, the pub right across our building. More often than I wish, it’s her face I see in the middle of the busy street.

  I close my eyes and rub my temples, feeling totally helpless, with no idea of what to do.

  What I do know is if I don’t manage to gather my wits together soon, my father will storm into my office and remind me that this firm, one he so proudly founded almost thirty years ago and has a portfolio of important award-winning projects, cannot afford to keep screw-ups who don’t do their job efficiently.

  And he’s absolutely right, for a lot of different reasons, but mostly because I really owe him that. Last year’s near-disaster took a hard toll on all of us, but not even for a second did he hesitate to stand by me throughout the entire mess.

  So, thank God, it’s Friday. I need to go out, clear my head, and get over last weekend. Maybe watch a ball game with Pete and check how he’s doing?

  On second thought, the way life’s treating him lately, I’m afraid it’d hardly cheer me up. Maybe I could find me some company for dinner and then hit a club?

  Resolutely I grab my mobile and search through my contacts. Beatrice. No, too chatty. Denise. Nope, too posh. Joseph– Shit, no! The memory of our disastrous breakup makes my stomach turn and I give up on the idea.

  The truth is, I don’t want to be with anyone.

  I want her.

  “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath as I toss my mobile back to the table, the impossibility consuming me, eating me from the inside out.

  “You all right?” Millie asks over the rim of her glasses, already on her way to leave my office. I didn’t even notice her enter.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked you if you wanted me to go through everything with you.”

  “Through what?”

  She points at my desk, a look of concern plastered on her face. “The documents you asked for. Next week’s meeting with the Warnder Group? Everything all right? Can I get you something, a coffee maybe?”

  Her questions remain suspended as I let my gaze fall to the file folder and my mind refocuses on the task I have in hands. Interrupting the awkward, uncomfortable moment, my phone rings.

  “No, thank you. You can go now.” I wait until she leaves to pick up the receiver. “Anderson.”

  “Hey, you didn’t join us for a coffee this morning. You okay, mate?” I quickly scan the floor through the glass walls. It’s Jake, from the opposite office.

  I give my shoulder a quick shake. “I’m good. What’s up?”

  “Listen, I kind of… I need your advice on something, it’s serious. You up for an after-work drink? Or maybe you already have other plans…”

  “
All right, I myself may need a couple drinks too. What do you mean, serious?”

  “It’s about Claire, man. I really fucked up this time…”

  I raise my head and look at him again. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache.

  *

  “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  After three pints and sixty minutes of bullshit talk about who’s better geared up for this year’s Premier League, Manchester United or Chelsea, a.k.a. beating around the bush because you don’t have the balls to come forward, Jake should finally get to the point.

  He rubs the back of his neck, clearly nervous, before finishing his beer in one pull. “I’ve been kind of seeing someone else...”

  “Oh, sod. And now what? Planning to file for divorce?”

  “Fuck, no! Why would I do that?”

  “Right…” I nod, unable to avoid the cynical grin.

  If there’s something men are usually bad at, it’s at expressing their emotions, it feels kind of unmanly, I suppose. But here’s something we are exceptionally good at, compartmentalising stuff. Apparently screwing around is okay, but leaving the wife is a terrible idea. Maybe it’s part of some self-preservation mechanism, I don’t know. If it’s because you don’t really want to lose what you’ve got at home, or if it’s because you fear your wife might just skin you alive, I don’t have a clue either.

  “The problem is… my… friend says she wants more and I’m feeling kind of trapped. Don’t really know what to do, man.”

  “Who’s your friend? I know her?”

  He lowers his head, fidgeting with the coaster. “Patricia...”

  “The Patricia Lockwood? Have you fucking lost your mind?” I spit in a hard whisper. “Wonderful, fucking wonderful! Oh man, that was so stupid!”

  Scrubbing at his face, he lets out a long-drawn-out sigh. “I know. But she totally gets me, man. And she’s amazing and wicked smart and–”

  Cute and full of energy. And next, you’ll be asking why you wasted so many years of your life with Claire and didn’t notice her in the first place. Then you’ll say the frigging universe must really hate you, for keeping you away from her all this time.

  This is basically like one of those classic songs everyone knows by heart, the Yellow Submarine, Jingle-Fucking-Bells or whatever. We’ve heard it so many times, we could all sing along.

  Sure, she’s hot as hell, she’s got legs up to here, and there’s this huge connection. And she was acting kind of flirty with you, but you fought against it for weeks. Bravo!

  Of course, your marriage had fallen into some shitty routine, you didn’t feel appreciated and it’s all about the kids, their homework, their ballet lessons or football training or whatever kids do these days; it’s all about the sodding bills, did you pay this, did you pay that; it’s all about the same questions, what’s for dinner, who fucking left the toilet seat up...

  And the sex? Don’t tell me? Of course, it’s mind-blowing and, unlike Claire, she’s into all sorts of kinky fuckery!

  I really have a short fuse for this kind of shit and, to tell the truth, I think Jake’s an imbecile. Claire is a brilliant, lovely woman.

  Besides, I also think there are boundaries that cannot be crossed. Like this one here: with so many women out there, why would you want to shag your wife’s best friend? Those are precisely the kind of complications you should avoid like an Ebola outbreak.

  Anyway, I’ve got so many things on my mind right now I have already pulled the plug. Out of male solidarity, I’m just letting him talk. He’s getting it off his chest and looking for some validation. The circle is getting tight and he needs someone to assure him he’s only half guilty. Half psychotic and running on adrenaline, more likely, but I’ll do him the favour and give him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

  While waiting for another round of beers, I lean against the counter and let my eyes wander around the room, assessing if I want to hang around a while more or go home, sulk on the couch and drown my sour mood in wine.

  Eventually, my gaze fixes on the cute brunette in a tight top sitting down a few tables away from us. I grin inwardly, smugly satisfied with the fact she’s been flirting with me in a rather obvious fashion, but not convinced enough it’d do me any good.

  The moment I’m pondering if I should go invite her and her friend to join us, a light touch on my shoulder intrudes in the middle of my thoughts.

  “Brian, what a coincidence! How nice to meet you here!”

  A shudder moves through me and for an instant I’m unable to react.

  “Don’t look so surprised!” Moving past the awkward silence, Mary gives me a quick kiss.

  “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

  “I’m with a few colleagues from work, we won a major case today. Just came to say hello, ask you how you’ve been.” She jerks her head towards a table at the bottom and smiles, beamingly. As if nothing had happened.

  And to me, it hadn’t.

  “Hello, then.”

  She rests a hand on my arm, her intense blue eyes riveted on mine. “You’re looking great. Hope everything’s fine with you.”

  “It is.”

  “We haven’t talked in a while. Maybe we could catch up sometime...”

  Another tense, awkward silence falls between us. We’re both aware neither of us has forgotten our last encounter. Her unexpected visit and what happened before I left the house in a fury.

  “Look, your drinks have arrived, you’d better go. Enjoy the evening.”

  I turn back to the counter and don’t even bother waiting for her to leave. But I do watch her head back to her table out of the corner of my eye. Her flawless, beautiful face. The way she’s always so impeccably dressed in her skirt suits, which only enhances the sophisticated and assertive attitude that makes her stand out from the rest.

  Five years of your life! That’s how much it cost you.

  My stomach churns at the multitude of unwanted memories rushing to the surface.

  Invariably kind and balanced, everyone loved her. The small-town girl who came to the big city to become a brilliant lawyer, to move at ease within the higher circles and social gatherings my father never cared about, but his business partner was always so willing to introduce her to.

  In hindsight, too perfect, too good to be true.

  Am I over her? Getting over someone who disappointed you like that is rarely a quick and easy process. But yes, I’m over her. The thing is, she’s not just any ex-girlfriend. She’s the one who was bright and perfect, someone I had on a pedestal, who everyone worshipped as if she were the Lord’s gift to our family.

  Until she cheated on me, shamelessly and repeatedly. But not with some random guy. For fuck’s sake, she did it with Peter Rogers, my dad’s associate. And his best friend, above all. A man I’ve respected and admired my entire life.

  Unlike my father, the brilliant creative mind passionate about the essence of architecture and with an incredible eye for detail, Rogers is made up of a different fibre. He not only made sure everything was always on track and everyone was working to their full potential, he’s also a tough negotiator with a killer business instinct. Thanks to my father’s vision and talent and his gut feeling and ambition, their business thrived to levels they probably hadn’t imagined when they started out almost three decades ago.

  Eloquent and with his charming personality, Rogers has long perfected the fine art of getting into as many knickers as he wants, we all knew that. Women have always been his soft spot. Three wives. Three nasty divorces.

  We used to tell him, instead of getting married over and again, he should just find himself a woman he didn’t like and give her an expensive apartment. It’d surely spare him a lot of headaches. And with Mary he was always all fucking smiles too, but I was like a son to him—or so I thought—so how could I have ever seen that coming?

  What a mess! We had to call the quits, my father had to call off a thirty-year-old partner
ship and take over the firm all by himself.

  And now she wants to chitchat?

  The hell she wants!

  16 Waiting for love

  Fuck love, I tell myself as I set the glass down with a decisive click. Obsessive thinking. Separation anxiety. Bad surprises. Sleepless nights. Rebound hook-ups. Who the hell needs any of that?

  Bumping into Mary today calls this unpleasant feeling to my mind of how much love sometimes sucks. It is pretty much like walking on a mine-riddled field: you may not make it out alive. I survived, it’s true, but the time it took me to lick the wounds, heal the scars and get back on my feet again made me conclude it isn’t worth it.

  So instead of risking getting blown to pieces again, I may just enjoy life in a far less complicated fashion. This evening, for example. Instead of sulking, I could, in fact, have some fun with the cute brunette here. Or?

  Only a few moments ago I was about to put on my best self-assured face and approach her, but she spared me the trouble and is already here, shaking her curvy bum right in front of me, sending me all the buying signals. Besides, I have the feeling she’s looking for a quick fix too, so I might not even have to sweat that much to pull this one away for a little one on one.

  “Damn, she’s hot,” Jake begins, fixing her over the rim of his glass. “Not to mention, there’s shag me written all over her face.”

  “I know.” I take another sip, my mind torn between flashes of the woman who doesn’t want anything to do with me and the idea of getting back in the game tonight.

  “Hey, listen!” He puts one hand to his ear as if straining to hear some far-off sound.

  “What?”

  “Can’t you hear it? Her pussy screaming? Fuck me! Fuck me hard!” He punches me on the arm. “What are you waiting for? You’re a goddamn wuss now? If you don’t man the fuck up, I’ll do her myself!” Jake says, his eyes travelling up the length of her body, devouring her.

  “Yes, do that, you moron. Because you don’t have enough problems already.”

  “Oh man, you’re right. I’m into deep shit, aren’t I?” Jake drops his face into his hands. “What am I supposed to do now?”