The Art of Kissing Frogs

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  “TELL ME EVERYTHING,” Chloe said, bouncing into Milk & Bean in a swirl of tangerine and turquoise, and plopping into the chair across from me. Only Chloe could carry off a combo that bright. “Wait. I need coffee.” She shrugged out of the orange raincoat and left it on the chair as she strode up to the counter to order. She chatted with Sophie, who was sporting a purple streak today. The two laughed, and Chloe handed Sophie a business card before taking her drink.

  “Okay,” she said as she sat down at the table. “Go.”

  “What were you and Sophie talking about?” Neither of us really knew Sophie. We saw her pretty much every weekend, chatted of banal things while we ordered coffee, and that was it. Other than being a very sweet person and having great taste in hairstyles, she was a mystery.

  “Oh, we keep talking about how great it would be to have a girl’s spa day, but it never comes to anything. This time I set a date. Next week. Aqua Vitae. Invite anyone you like, but we’re doing this.”

  “I have no idea who I would invite.”

  “What about that Deb from your work? She seems nice. And Kev.”

  “Kev would think he’d died and gone to heaven.”

  “Perfect. It’s sorted. Now stop changing the subject. Your date.”

  “Well, he took me to this cute little French bistro over in the West End. Some little hole in the wall place I’ve never heard of, but it was perfect. The food was delicious. Everything was going well.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming on.”

  Smart woman. “I, uh, sort of dumped wine on him.”

  “Oh, dear lord, Kate.” She did a face palm. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. Entire glass of red wine straight into his lap.”

  “Tell me he was wearing black.”

  “He was.”

  “Thank goodness.” She heaved a sigh. “Then what?”

  I told her about the rest of the meal, our conversation, and then I told her about the autograph incident.

  Chloe straightened, her blue eyes nearly as wide as the teacup she was holding. “Wait. What’s Adam’s last name?”

  “Wentworth.”

  “OmigodKate.” It ran together like it was all one word. She flapped her hand wildly as if she couldn’t quite complete her thought.

  “I know. He’s famous.” I said it like one might say, “He’s got leprosy.”

  Chloe pulled out her phone, and a few swipes later was holding it up to me. Adam’s megawatt smile filled the screen, dimples and all. I felt suddenly gooey. She jabbed a finger at it. “This Adam Wentworth?” Her voice was about three octaves higher than usual.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Right?”

  “How did you not know this?” she practically squealed.

  “Well, excuse me if I’m not very up on my British celebrities.”

  “Seriously, Kate, this dude is like famous all over the world.”

  “Not that famous,” I muttered. She gave me a look. “Okay, he’s that famous. But you know how British celebs are. They’re not like American ones.” It was true. Even the famous ones tended to live more “normal” lives than their American counterparts, often riding the Tube or doing their own shopping in the same shops regular people did.

  “I can’t believe you’re dating him.”

  “Neither can I,” I said drily.

  Her eyes narrowed. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Well, it is what I meant. Why the hell is he dating me? I’m not...I’m not celebrity dating material.” There it was, the ugly truth. The thing I hadn’t said out loud until now.

  “Katherine Evangeline Miller.” Chloe’s voice was filled with outrage. “You take that back right now! Of course he wants to date you. He’d be a damn fool not to.”

  “He only wants to date me because I don’t treat him like some kind of famous freak.”

  “You idiot,” she snapped. “You know I love you, but really. You’re an idiot if you think that’s the only reason.”

  I raised an eyebrow and sipped my coffee. No use arguing with a crazy person.

  Chloe huffed. “One of these days, Kate Miller, you are going to wake up and see how gorgeous you are, or you are going to end up alone with a hundred cats.”

  “I’m allergic to cats.”

  “Iguanas then. So what happened after you found out all this? I still can’t believe you didn’t know.”

  “He, um, kissed me.”

  She squealed so loud, several heads turned our way, followed by the usual tutting. “Tell me everything,” she whispered, leaning forward eagerly.

  “It was nice.”

  “Nice?” Chloe looked horrified.

  I laughed. “It was just a quick peck. Like something a brother gives his sister.”

  “Bull. Your brothers have never kissed you in their lives. They’d die of horror at the very idea.”

  It was true. I did not come from a particularly demonstrative family. Sarcasm was our version of hugs. “It might have been a little more than that, but it honestly wasn’t much to write home about. It was over before I’d gotten used to the idea in the first place.”

  “Huh.” She seemed baffled and slightly put out. Chloe loved her gossip.

  “He did ask me out again though.” I couldn’t help the smug tone that crept into my voice.

  She squealed again, more softly this time. “Tell me!”

  “He wants me to come see him in his play and then join him for dinner after. And”—I paused dramatically—“he gave me two tickets.”

  This time they heard Chloe’s squeal all the way out on the street.

  Mr. Cries Over His Ex

  CHLOE’S FAVORITE STORY was the guy who cried over his ex. I think it was my first or second date after the Gavin Incident, so I was still pretty new to the whole thing.

  He was late. Really late. I’m talking a full hour late, and sitting in the pub by myself felt awkward to say the least. I should have gotten up and left, but he kept texting he was on his way. The Tubes were delayed. He was almost there.

  And so I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  When he finally walked through the door, he was six foot five at least, easy on the eyes, and smelled vaguely of wet dog. He apologized profusely, bought me a drink, and then headed straight for the bathroom. I couldn’t blame him after however long his journey had ended up taking, but, well, more awkwardness as I toyed with my drink, avoiding the stares of people entering the pub.

  Finally we got down to the business of getting to know each other. We talked about families and hobbies and jobs. Turned out he was a DJ who’d worked all over the world. He regaled me with stories of his travels to exotic locations like Ibiza and Australia. I told him about some of the craziness of trying to adjust to living in a foreign country. Like asking for canned pumpkin and having the grocery clerk stare at me like I’d grown a second head, explaining, “People don’t eat pumpkin. That’s pig food.”

  Things were going well when out of nowhere, he started crying. Crying. Big, fat, salty tears sliding down his cheeks. Eyes red-rimmed, nose snotty. I was in a panic. What the hell was wrong? We’d been having a perfectly normal conversation about baked goods up until that point. Had I said something wrong? Did brownies give him flashbacks or something?

  “Um, are you okay?” I asked hesitantly.

  “It’s the song. It always gets me.”

  To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed what they were playing. I mean, I heard the music, but I hadn’t paid any attention to it. It was that song from back in the sixties by the Shirelles: “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.” I listened to it for a moment, trying to figure out why it would make anyone cry. Frankly, I had no clue.

  “It’s so moving,” he said.

  “Um, yeah. It’s a good song.” I’d heard moving pieces of music in my time. This was not one of them. I mean, it was a great song, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t the
kind of thing that transported a person.

  “Good? It’s amazing! I mean, just think about it. The words, man. The meaning.”

  I had no idea what to say. I knew the words well enough, but I still couldn’t figure out why he was crying over them.

  “I mean, here is this woman, and she is so in love with this man she wants to sleep with him. But she’s worried that he won’t, you know, respect her in the morning. That he’s only using her.”

  Well, yeah. Everyone knew that. I mean it was sort of a universal problem for my gender. Look at Gavin. And we were married. Still, I didn’t see any reason to cry over it.

  “This was the sixties,” he continued. “This was a big deal for her. People didn’t sleep around in the sixties.”

  I stared at him. That wasn’t what I’d heard. Did the phrase “Free Love” ring a bell? “Uh, sure. Right.”

  “You can hear the emotion in her voice. Her pain.” He was getting all choked up now. He did realize she was just a singer, right? A great singer, but she hadn’t even written the song. It wasn’t like this had happened to her personally, and she had written about it. Good grief.

  He droned on and on and on. Finally the song came to an end, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Clearly you like some Motown,” I said. “What other sorts of music do you like?”

  He started listing all kinds of music I’d never heard of. Well, I knew rock and house and jazz, but some of the other stuff was like a foreign language. Finally he said, “But I hate pop. It’s annoying and has no artistry whatsoever. My ex used to listen to it all the time. Drove me bonkers.”

  Okaaay. I happened to like pop music quite a lot. It was fun and zippy and upbeat. When I was feeling down, which happened more often than I’d like these days, I’d put it on and dance around the flat. Without fail, it made me feel better. But stupid me, I didn’t say any of that. I just nodded and smiled and did the “uh-huh” thing while he yammered on.

  “How long were the two of you together?” I asked.

  “Six years. We broke up three months ago.”

  Red flag. That wasn’t much time after such a long relationship. “That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah. I even asked her to marry me.”

  Oh shit. Was he crying again? “You did? Did she turn you down?”

  “She said yes.”

  Yep. He was definitely crying. I started calculating my escape route. “Oh. Um, okay.” So why was he crying if she said yes?

  “Then she left me for some wanker who makes sixty thousand a year.”

  “Oh, gosh.”

  “That’s the whole problem with this fucked up world. Money isn’t important. Money is just so much rubbish. We don’t fucking need money.”

  Well, actually, money sort of paid bills and bought food, and I considered those things important. It wasn’t the end all and be all of life, but it was necessary. “I’m sorry. That must have hurt.”

  “Oh, my god, you have no idea. No idea. I was a mess for weeks.”

  He was still a mess. Did he really think he was the only person in the world who’d ever been dumped by the person they loved? The only one who’d ever been betrayed? “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

  “How could she do that to me? How could she leave me?” He was gulping now, and people were starting to stare.

  “Here.” I scrambled in my purse until I found a crumbled tissue and shoved it in his hand. “I gotta go. Good luck with, ah, everything.” I got up and started for the door.

  “Wait,” he called, rising slightly from his seat. “Am I going to see you again?”

  “Um, maybe.”

  “I’ll email you later.”

  I gave him a weak smile. “You do that.” I heard him still snuffling behind me as I made my escape.

  Chapter 10

  “OH MYLANTA, I CAN’T believe Adam got you tickets. This show has been sold out for months.” Chloe was practically dancing in place, her magenta sandals tapping against the cobblestones, she was so excited. A few of the people in the queue stared at her, but most ignored the crazed woman in the hot pink beret and purple-framed glasses.

  “Yeah, it’s cool.” I loved the theater, but I was so nervous about Adam, I was feeling more than a little queasy. Since our date I’d watched everything I could get my hands on that had him in it, from the classic English crime show where he’d played a rookie police detective, to the Hollywood movie that had made him famous to everyone but me, apparently. I mean, I’d seen the movie. Loved it even. Loved him in it, but somehow when I met him, I hadn’t put two and two together. Who guesses the man they’re dating is a relatively famous actor? I would be more likely to think “serial killer,” which goes to show how my mind works. Not to mention how much bad luck I’ve had in the romance department.

  “Are you okay?” Chloe asked. “You seem a little distracted.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Just a little nervous.” I was wearing my simple black wrap dress tonight, but Kev had helped me accessorize with a wide gold belt, chunky jewelry, and a cute pair of gold sandals. He’d done my hair again, too, though I’d insisted on doing my own makeup this time. I wasn’t that helpless.

  “Chill, girl. He’s obviously interested in you, or he wouldn’t have taken you to dinner, Never mind given us these awesome seats.”

  I waited while the lady took our tickets, inspected our bags for goodness knows what, and waved us through. Another woman pointed where to go. As we walked down the aisle toward our seats, I whispered, “But he’s used to dating famous women.” I didn’t say “hot” or “skinny,” but I thought it.

  Chloe rolled her eyes before sliding past already seated patrons. Once we sat down, she whispered back, “Don’t be an idiot. Just because he dated famous women before doesn’t mean that’s what he wants now. Maybe he’s tired of dating celebrities. Or maybe he just likes you.” She snapped open her program and started reading.

  I sighed and did the same. It wasn’t that Chloe couldn’t see my physical faults. She could, but she didn’t think they mattered. I wished that were true. In my experience, appearance always matters, especially when you fall short of the ideal.

  The lights flashed to indicate everyone should take their seats, and then a man in a snazzy three-piece suit stepped out on-stage, his thick, wavy hair perfectly coiffed. I was almost certain he was wearing makeup.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Palace Theatre and this evening’s showing of William Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. I’m your director, Jameson Keller.” Jameson Keller struck a dramatic pose, and the audience clapped as expected. He may be the director, but I’d bet he could out-drama any one of the acting talents. He droned on about the producers and whatnot. I admit I tuned out. The sharp twang of his American accent grated on my ears. Evidently I’d been out of the States too long.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you The Winter’s Tale starring Adam Wentworth.” With another flourish Keller bowed to the audience before striding offstage to a cacophony of clapping and cheers. I was pretty sure those were because of Adam, not his long-winded speech.

  The house lights went down, the stage lights came up, and the heavy velvet draperies parted. I’d always loved Shakespeare. The play, one of his more obscure works, captured my attention. Adam was amazing, if I did say so myself, and looked dashing in his historical costume. Of course, every other woman in the place thought so, too. I couldn’t help a small twinge of jealousy as several women sighed and fanned themselves every time he appeared onstage. Really? Could they not keep their orgasms to themselves?

  The play ended to a standing ovation and several curtain calls. Finally the house lights went up for good, and people began pouring out of the theater, chattering excitedly about whichever parts had been most interesting or whichever actor had caught their attention. Mostly, of course, they talked about Adam.

  “Isn’t he dreamy?”

  “I can’t wait to tell the folks back home that I saw Adam Wentworth!”r />
  “I’m going around to the back door to get his autograph.”

  “I wonder if he’s seeing anyone? I bet I can get his number.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a picture with him.”

  I wanted to scream at them that he was dating me. Me. But then I imagined the amusement on their faces. The disbelief. Maybe Chloe was right, and Adam really did like me, but these crazy fans would never buy it.

  “Hey.” Chloe grabbed my arm, holding me back. “Didn’t he give you backstage passes?”

  “Not exactly. He told me to give my name to the security guy.”

  “Well, let’s go then.” She started dragging me toward the nearest usher.

  I followed reluctantly. I felt like one of those idiotic fan girls. I reminded myself not to be a ninny. Adam had given me the tickets, after all. Told me to come backstage. I wasn’t a fan girl, and he knew that.

  Three ushers later we were finally at the magical backstage door. Chloe gave my name to the security guard, who waved us both through. We were met on the other side of the door by a young woman, computer pad clutched to her chest and dishwater blonde hair dangerously close to escaping her bun. She looked harried.

  “I’m Myra, Keller’s assistant. I’ll take you to Adam,” she said with a crisp, British accent. She spun on her heel and strode down the hall so fast, we practically had to run to keep up. No wonder she was harried, dealing with the likes of a pompous ass like Keller day in and day out. She’d probably need a mental health break by the time the play was over.

  Myra led us through the honeycomb maze that was the backstage of the Palace Theatre. Actors hurried about, tossing wigs and costume pieces here and there, half of them nearly naked. Most of them appeared to share a large common dressing room, with only a couple private dressing rooms, their doors marked with stars. Myra knocked on the door with the largest star, a sign tacked below it said Adam Wentworth.

  Myra poked her head in the room. “Excuse me, Adam? You’ve got guests.” She swung the door wide for us to pass through, then took off again, with obviously more important things to do than babysit a couple fans.