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The Art of Kissing Frogs

Page 10

by Shéa R. MacLeod


  I groaned, wishing a big hole would open up and swallow me. “I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t stop saying it as I dabbed at the quickly spreading puddle of wine on the table.

  The waiter appeared out of nowhere, tsking under his breath. “Not to worry, mademoiselle,” he said. I was pretty sure his French accent was as fake as my British one had been. “Please. Allow me.”

  He sent Adam to the bathroom to clean up, efficiently removed our dishes from the table, whipped of the stained tablecloth, and mopped up the mess. Then he replaced the tablecloth with a fresh one, reset our dishes, and refilled my wine glass, all before Adam returned. The entire time I could feel the eyes of everyone in the restaurant boring into me. They were probably wondering what a gorgeous class act like Adam was doing with a plain Jane moron like me. I’d wonder the same thing if I saw a pair like us in a restaurant.

  I wasn’t sure whether to keep eating or wait for Adam. It was awkward sitting there by myself while everyone stared at me. It was even more awkward to sit there alone eating while everyone stared at me. Fortunately, Adam reappeared and took his seat. He looked none the worse for wear.

  “That was exciting.” He gave me one of his megawatt smiles. He didn’t sound like he was being snarky.

  “I could die right now.”

  “Come on, Kate. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. Sparks zinged up my fingers where he touched me. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Except that it happens to me all the time.” I couldn’t help looking at our clasped hands out of the corner of my eye. I felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I spilled half a beer on Sir Alec Guinness?” Adam asked, squeezing my hand before letting go. I felt suddenly bereft.

  My eyes widened. “The guy who played Obi-Wan in the original Star Wars?”

  He grinned. “The very same.”

  The rest of the dinner passed smoothly as Adam told his tale over the main course. Our waiter reappeared to remove our plates before returning with a couple bowls of the most delicious-looking crème brulee.

  “Is that passion fruit on top?”

  “Oh yeah,” Adam said, digging into the luscious dessert. “You have got to try this. It’s amazing.”

  He was right. It was beyond tasty. The tangy passion fruit and the sweet vanilla crème danced on my tongue in perfect harmony. I took my time, enjoying every last bite, even scraping my dish clean while Adam watched in amusement. For a moment I felt embarrassed having him see me eat something sweet and enjoy it with such gusto. What must he think of me? He was probably thinking it was no wonder I was overweight, eating like that.

  Then I told myself I was a moron. There was no judgment in his expression. No censure. It was all in my own damn head.

  “Would you like to go for a walk around Leicester Square? Take in the action?” Adam asked as the waiter cleared our dessert dishes.

  “I’d like that.”

  We were just getting up from the table when one of the female diners hurried over, a bit of paper and pen in hand. It seemed rather odd. I couldn’t imagine what she wanted. Had I somehow splashed wine clear across the room, and she wanted me to pay her dry cleaning?

  “Excuse me,” she said breathlessly, completely ignoring me, her focus solely on my date. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but can I please have your autograph? I just adore you.” Her eyes were wide, cheeks flushed. Her accent sounded American, but with a Southern twang. Texas maybe.

  I glanced from Adam, who looked vaguely embarrassed, to the girl and back again. What the hell?

  “Certainly. I’d be honored.” Adam offered her that same megawatt smile he often gave me, except it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He took the pen, scribbled his name, and handed the paper back to the girl. “There you are.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” she gushed, clutching it to her ample chest. “The girls back home are never going to believe this. Can I get a picture, too?”

  Adam looked increasingly uncomfortable as he glanced at me. “Of course.”

  The young woman waved to the man she’d been sitting with. He jumped up with alacrity and snapped a photo on his cell phone as the girl draped herself on Adam’s arm. I would have been jealous and annoyed except it was clear Adam wasn’t entirely thrilled, so I shoved down the jealousy and just went with annoyed.

  Clutching her prize, the woman hurried back to her table, giggling to her husband or boyfriend. She gave Adam a little finger wave, which he ignored.

  I stared at Adam. “What was that all about?”

  “Let’s—ah—go outside. I’ll explain.”

  I wanted to stamp my foot and demand he tell me right that instant, but it didn’t seem like a very mature thing to do. Besides, everyone was still staring at us, and it was more than awkward. Spinning on my heel, I stomped off up the stairs without even waiting for him. “Well?” I asked as he joined me on the street.

  “Ah.” He adjusted his collar as if it were too tight. “You know how I told you I work in theatre?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I don’t so much work in theatre as, well, I’m the star.” He looked embarrassed.

  So he wasn’t a behind the scenes guy, as I’d assumed. He was an actor. I still couldn’t understand what the big deal was. “You have the lead role in A Winter’s Tale?”

  “Yes.”

  I frowned. “Do women usually mob you in restaurants after seeing you on stage?” It seemed a bit weird. I’d been to a play or two in the West End, and believe me, if I’d run into one of the actors off-stage, I wouldn’t have known him from Adam. The Biblical one, I mean.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, what exactly?” I was getting annoyed at all this beating about the bush.

  “Generally they’ve seen me in the movies.”

  And then it hit me, where I’d seen him before. Adam Wentworth wasn’t just some stage actor with a couple of B movies under his belt. Adam Wentworth was well on his way to becoming Hollywood A-list, and I’d just dumped wine on his crotch.

  World’s Most Boring Date

  NOT LONG AFTER GAVIN had literally thrown me out of our shared flat so his new girlfriend could move in, I joined one of those online dating sites in a fit of pique. It was only for a month to sort of try it out, but I figured if he could shack up with somebody he barely knew, I could at the very least find a date for Friday night.

  This seriously, seriously cute guy got in contact with me almost immediately. I mean, he was beyond adorable in a rumpled, artsy kind of way with dark hair that stuck out in random directions like a startled hedgehog. Which made sense, since he was an artist of sorts.

  His name was Colin. By day he was a graphic artist and, therefore, quite “normal” by the standards of the general public. By night, he was a freelance artist creating drawings of zombies and whatnot for clients. I was thinking this guy would be incredibly cool to spend time with. I mean, he was artistic, creative, and cute. Really cute. And who wouldn't like a guy who can draw zombies? Plus he was funny. We sort of bounced these little puns back and forth online. It seemed we'd really hit it off. Maybe I’d found my new Prince Charming.

  And so I agreed to meet Colin at a theme pub off Oxford Street. I have to say the pub was really interesting in a rather tacky tourist sort of way. The theme: horror flicks. The tables were shaped like coffins, old black and white horror movies played silently on the television sets above the bar, and fake cobwebs, bubbling test tubes, and creaking doors abounded. I was in heaven.

  At least I was until I sat down with my date. It was like talking to a block of wood. A barely responsive block of wood with a nervous giggle. He could barely look my in the eye and seemed unable to come up with anything even vaguely interesting to say. We actually spent the first twenty minutes talking about the weather, which, for anyone familiar with London, basically comes in two types: gray and dry or gray and wet. Any amount of sun was downright newsworthy.
Unfortunately we hadn’t had sun in weeks.

  I tried to ask some questions to sort of get the ball rolling. I figured he would be passionate about his art since he’d told me he wanted to go full-time as an artist, but every question was given a rather vague, bare-minimum answer. I swear it was like pulling teeth only more painful.

  “Do you like drawing zombies?” I asked.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Are you into zombies?”

  “Not really.”

  “What would you prefer to draw instead of zombies?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever the client wants.”

  You get the idea. Before we got to the point where we were counting each other's nose hairs, he suggested we move to the second venue: Sir John Soane’s Museum. I’d never heard of it, but Colin assured me it was unique and interesting. He was not wrong.

  The museum was in the former home of Sir John Soane, who was an architect and a collector of some renown during England’s Georgian era. And oh, boy, did he ever love to collect. Not a single thing had been removed from or added to the house since he died in 1837. The place was crammed floor to rafters with everything from shrunken human heads (yes, real ones) to an Egyptian sarcophagus in the basement. Urns and statues were crammed into every corner, bas reliefs and paintings covered nearly every inch of wall space, shelves upon shelves of ancient books filled the library. If the horror theme pub had been heaven, this was whatever is better than heaven.

  You'd think we'd have plenty to talk about surrounded by so many interesting objects. You would be wrong.

  "I've never seen so many pieces of Greek masonry in one place,” I said, gently caressing a small marble statuette of some goddess or other. The stone was smooth and cool beneath my fingertips. “Do you suppose he raided the Parthenon or something?"

  "Heh heh. Yeah."

  "Wow. Look at these manacles.” I pointed to two sets of rusty iron cuffs hanging from a post in the basement. So many innuendos. “Not something you expect to see in the home of a proper English gentleman, are they?"

  "Heh heh. Yeah."

  "Who on earth needs three hundred Chinese tiles?" Staring at the piles and stacks of blue and white tiles taking up an entire room, I wondered why a person would buy enough tiles to redo a kitchen and then leave them lying around.

  "Heh heh. Yeah."

  Honestly, I was beginning to flounder. I'd had more interesting conversations with a brick wall. What happened to the cute, funny guy I'd met online? Sure, he was still cute, but... Oh. My. God. Colin was quite possibly the most boring person on the planet and showed no signs whatsoever of anything remotely resembling a sense of humor. Well, unless you counted the hysterical giggle.

  After the museum, he walked me to the Tube station, gave me a brotherly peck on the cheek, and then ran away as fast as he possibly could. Okay, maybe not ran, but definitely a very fast walk. I was both relieved—what would I have done if he tried to kiss me properly?—and put out. I’d never had a man run away so fast. I wasn’t that hideous.

  Note to self: never judge a man by his sketchbook.

  After The World's Most Boring Date, I figured I'd never hear from Colin again. We’d barely communicated, plus he’d run away, right? All signs of a guy not being that into me. Boy, was I wrong. The very next day I received a message from him telling me what a great night he'd had and how much fun it was.

  Baffled just didn't cover it. Were we even on the same date? Because the date I was on had been neither great nor fun. Painful but not fun.

  Even more bizarre, he asked me out again. There was some play on, and he wanted to take me. I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe he was lonely?

  I guess there were two reasons I said yes. For one, I was just so gobsmacked I couldn't think of anything else to say. For another, I figured maybe he was just shy. It was a first date, after all. Maybe the second one would be better. I decided to give the guy, and me, a chance.

  We agreed to meet in front of the Tube station nearest the theatre and get a coffee beforehand. Probably we should have had something alcoholic, but coffee it was. Along with the coffee came a painful, stilted discussion of my Tube journey, our work week, and the weather. Again. It was so painful, in fact, that we actually headed to the theatre a good forty-five minutes before the play was to start.

  The play was some existentialist bull crap which really made me wish I’d had some alcohol. At least we both agreed it was rubbish. You'd have thought that would give us something to talk about, ripping on the play, but no. I should have learned from the museum. Apparently, I'm slow.

  I was counting the minutes until I could escape when he asked if I wanted to get a drink. Stupidly, I said yes. I was still trying to convince myself there was more to this guy than a pretty face.

  I guess I was hoping that somehow it would get better. That at some point he'd relax, loosen up a bit, and start actually, well, talking. I couldn't fathom that an artist who knew so many cool places to hang out could really be so damn boring. It was about to get worse.

  He took me to a lovely pub that had once been a firehouse. The owners had cleverly retained elements of its former days, including a fireman’s pole and an antique fire engine, as well as pictures of firefighters once stationed there. It was really an amazing place.

  We sat at the bar, ordered our drinks, and proceeded to spend another thirty minutes in a halting and horrible conversation about...the weather. I don't think I've ever talked so much about the weather in my life.

  I asked questions about his art, his family, his flatmate. I asked if he had pets, what foods he liked, his favorite movie. All the little conversation starters that worked with normal people got me nowhere. I felt like I was playing interrogator instead of having a conversation, but nothing I tried got him talking. Eventually we lapsed into awkward silence, eyes darting around the pub, hardly able to look at each other.

  Desperate for anything to liven up the moment I blurted, “How many people in here do you think are really aliens?”

  “Heh, heh. Yeah.”

  Talk about face meeting palm. I stood up quickly, jarring the table and sloshing what was left of my drink. “Sorry, Colin. I’ve got to go. Early to rise and all that.” It was a lie, but he just seemed incapable of ending what was so obviously not a good date.

  Once again he left me at the Tube station, bolting into the night like I was the spawn of Satan and he'd just barely escaped with his life. I probably should have been offended, but honestly, I was t relieved. It was plain he didn’t like me, which saved the awkwardness of refusing a third date.

  Until I got another email from him the next morning telling me what a wonderful time he had. It was like one of those Star Trek episodes where they fall into an alternate reality. He'd had a good time? Was he on something? Had I been out with his boring twin?

  I very nicely told him I’d enjoyed meeting him, but I didn't feel we were a match. He wrote back that he agreed but thought I was fun to hang out with and would love to be friends.

  I don’t think I’ll ever understand men.

  Chapter 9

  I STARED AT ADAM IN horror, my eyes getting bigger and bigger by the minute. “You’re... you’re... holy jeebus, you’re the guy in that movie with the aliens.”

  Adam looked sheepish and a little embarrassed. “Yes. I’m the guy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” It came out a little louder than I meant and several pedestrians looked our way, gawked for a minute (I’m not sure whether it was at the famous person or the crazy person yelling at the famous person), and continued on their way. The British tended not to meddle in the affairs of celebrities, preferring to pretend they were above such things. I guessed they were far classier than the rest of us. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said again, quieter this time.

  He sighed. “Would you?”

  I hadn’t expected that one. “What?”

  “Think about it. Imagine if every time you met someone, they knew right away who you were, how mu
ch money you made, what your next project was going to be. Would you ever be sure they wanted to date you? Or your money and fame?”

  Okay. He’d made a good point.

  “Then imagine meeting someone. Someone beautiful and funny and clever who had no idea you were famous and was only interested who you were as a person.”

  Wait. Beautiful? Surely he wasn’t talking about me.

  “Can you imagine that, Kate?” He took my hand, rubbing his thumb gently across my knuckles like he’d done back in the restaurant. Shivers of delight danced through me. “Finally meeting someone who liked you for you. Not because of your fame or who you knew but just because they liked you.” He sighed again. “I didn’t tell you because, well, I didn’t want it to change anything.”

  That got my Irish up. I yanked my hand out of his. “You think I care that you’re famous?” I very nearly shouted, outrage thick in my voice. “You think I care you have money? Or know...whoever you know? I don’t even know who you know.” I wasn’t making much sense, but I was kind of pissed off. How could he even think I would care about such stupid shit? Sure, I’d had celebrity crushes now and then because hey, they’re hot. But I didn’t care diddly squat if a person was famous or not.

  “Hey. Hey. Kate. We just met, right? How was I to know how you’d react? I wanted to wait until I was sure it wouldn’t make a difference.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Well, it made a difference. I’m mad as hell at you now.” Okay, I wasn’t really. I sort of got it, actually. I had a good imagination, and I could pretty well visualize what a pain in the ass it would be for everyone around you to care only about the mask of fame and nothing about the true person behind it.

  “I know you are,” he said, taking my hand again and tugging me closer. “And as long as you forgive me, you can be mad all you like.”

  “All right,” I said. “I guess I can forgive you, then.”

  His lips as they came down on mine were still curved in a smile.

 

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