Kiss Me, Stupid

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  The place was hopping, young twenty- and thirty-somethings crammed into the small space. People were shouting back and forth over the music, dancing wherever there was room to move, and crowding in about five deep at the bar. I was feeling slightly claustrophobic. Owen disappeared and then reappeared with drinks in hand. Rum and cola, not my favorite. Cola did weird things to my insides. Embarrassing things. But I took it and nodded my thanks.

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur of lights and sound and too many alcoholic beverages. I danced with Owen. I danced with Tom. I even danced with Poppy. At one point I think we were group dancing. All I knew was that every time Tom touched me, I felt a zing zip through me, which made me feel kind of guilty. I was supposed to be there with Owen. Sort of. But when he touched me, there wasn’t even the slightest shiver, never mind a zing.

  Eventually we left, grabbing a cab back to Owen’s house. He lived nearby in a basement flat in one of the old Victorians in Harrow’s more residential district.

  “I should go home,” I said, not wanting to give the wrong impression by leaving with Owen even if there were other people there, too.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll go to my place, and I’ll call you a cab from there.”

  I hesitated, but Poppy nudged me. “It’ll be fine,” she assured me. I glanced at Tom, who also nodded.

  I gave in. “All right.”

  “This is lovely,” I told Owen as we entered his flat. It had the classic tile floor in the entryway, but someone had really done up the place nicely with smooth white walls and hardwood floors. In the small kitchen to the right, I saw marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. The place must have cost him a pretty penny.

  “Thanks. Tom helped me find it. He’s my estate agent. That’s how we met.”

  “Oh. Nice.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  We hung about a bit in Owen’s living room and were chatting about random things when suddenly nature started screaming at me. I asked for the bathroom and quickly ducked into the small black-and-white tiled room.

  You know those horrible dating stories you hear about the first time the new couple gets together at one of their homes and someone ends up having majorly embarrassing bathroom issues? Well, that totally happened. My cheeks heated with embarrassment as I flipped on the exhaust fan on the way out and started to shut the door behind me. Except Owen stopped me and rushed in. I could have sunk into the floor then and there. I wanted to die of humiliation. I knew I shouldn’t have had that rum and cola.

  Once he exited the bathroom, Owen didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. He had to have noticed, but I was relieved he pretended not to. He kissed me, but I was too busy worrying about the bathroom stink to find it either sexy or exiting.

  “You could stay the night,” he suggested.

  I glanced into the living room. Poppy was lounging on the couch, clearly planning to sleep there. Tom had an airbed out on the floor next to the couch. There was nowhere for me to sleep. I caught Owen glancing toward an open doorway, and the lightbulb went on. He expected me to sleep with him. I wasn’t sure whether to feel resigned or angry.

  “Yeah, stay the night. It’ll be fun,” Poppy chimed.

  I glanced at Tom, but this time there was no indication of how he felt about me staying. In Owen’s bed. Frankly, I wasn’t even close to ready for that. I shook my head. “No. I really need to get home. I have a lot of things to do tomorrow.” It was a lie. I had nothing to do, but I didn’t want him knowing that.

  Owen sighed. “Fine. I’ll call you a cab.”

  There went my savings. “Ask if they take credit cards.”

  The cab arrived and, of course, they took credit cards, but the machine was down and he could only take cash. Tom hovered in the doorway behind us as Owen and I talked with the driver.

  “You’ve got cash, right?” Owen asked, as if he’d forgotten all about his promise. Maybe he had. We’d all had a bit to drink.

  I glanced in my bag. I had sixty pounds. I was short at least a ten. “I don’t have enough.”

  “I can stop at a machine,” the driver said.

  “See,” Owen beamed. “No problem.”

  I decided to be straight with him, something I usually was uncomfortable with, being British and all. But frankly, I was a little irritated. “Except the only reason I agreed to stay out late with you was because you promised to cover the cab cost. I’d have never stayed otherwise. A seventy-pound cab fare is not in my budget at the moment.”

  “Fine.” He pulled out his wallet and slapped a ten-pound note in my hand. Well, at least I’d be able to get home.

  I started to climb into the cab when Tom stepped in. “Mate, you told her you’d cover the cab. Cover the bloody cab.”

  With an eye roll, Owen pulled out another twenty. “That’s all I’ve got. Sorry.” He gave me a look that was supposed to impart sympathy but frankly came off as fake.

  Tom shook his head and pulled out his own wallet. He handed me forty pounds.

  “Oh, no, you don’t have to,” I said, trying to give him back the money.

  “Yes. I do.” He wrapped his hand around mine, closing the notes inside my fist. His skin was warm against mine, and those zings were back in full force. “Be safe.” He gave my hand a little squeeze before letting go.

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  Owen said nothing. He didn’t have to. His expression said it all.

  Chapter 6

  I WAS NERVOUS ABOUT seeing Owen at the next salsa class after everything that had gone down over the weekend. It was silly. He was the one in the wrong, not me, but I wasn’t sure how he would react or how I would handle it. It was stupid. I was forty years old, for heaven’s sake. Not a teenager.

  Fortunately, I needn’t have worried. Owen was perfectly pleasant, even flirtatious. It was as if the taxi incident had never happened.

  “I’m glad you went out with us last Friday,” he said as we practiced dancing during the free-dance after class. “It was a lot of fun.”

  “Yes, it was. Thanks for inviting me.” Neither of us mentioned the cab fiasco. Maybe he’d just had a little too much to drink. Some people weren’t very nice when they were drunk.

  “Your friends are nice,” I said. “Poppy is quite a character.”

  “Yes, she is. She’s a good friend. I think she has a thing for Tom.” He gave me a look.

  Was he warning me off? He didn’t need to. I was well aware of the inappropriateness of any feelings I might have for Tom. Not that I had feelings for him. It was just hormones. Stupid, crazy, zingy hormones.

  After class, Owen walked me to the Tube station. We were taking opposite Tubes, so when we reached the bottom of the escalators he leaned down. I thought he meant to kiss me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but he kissed my cheek instead. “Have a nice night,” he said and disappeared down the tunnel.

  I stared after him, baffled. I had thought he liked me, but now suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Not that it mattered. Owen wasn’t the one I wanted kissing me.

  SATURDAY I MET SARAH at the Castle for lunch and a good chin wag. I’d been at loose ends most of the week, uncertain how to move forward other than my new found love of salsa. I’d slipped out a couple times to take snapshots of the local area. Some of them had turned out quite nice, but that was it. I had no idea what to do next.

  “You should start a blog,” Sara said, pouring extra gravy over her sausage and mash.

  “A blog? What for?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. To showcase your photography, talk about your journey of self-discovery, that sort of thing. People are into that, you know. And it’s a good way to build up a following.”

  “A following for what?”

  “You know, to monetize your blog. Get people buying your photos. That sort of thing.”

  I laughed. “No one is going to by my photos. They’re not professional.”

  “They’re good, though. Maybe you need to invest in a better camera and a few l
essons. Then you can start putting your photos on those stock photography sites. Make a little money.”

  I mulled it over. It was an interesting idea, something I’d never contemplated before.

  “Oh, and ask Kate if you can post her wedding reception photos. Set up a website for wedding photography.”

  “Oh, please. Who’s going to hire an amateur to take their wedding photos?”

  “Trust me. You will have a line around the block of people wanting the woman who photographed Adam Wentworth’s wedding reception to take snapshots of their own.”

  “Even though I wasn’t the hired photographer?”

  “I doubt they’re going to care about that, especially if Kate gives her blessing. You’re friends, and she loved those pictures. I can’t see her saying no.”

  Excitement began to bubble inside. This could be fun. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Deb?”

  I glanced up, startled to find Tom standing on the other side of the table. There were two women with him. Young, pretty, a little on the plump side. They eyed me, as if judging how much of a rival I’d be, then clearly dismissed me, walking off toward the bar.

  “Tom. Fancy seeing you here.” I stood so he could kiss my cheek. I subtly inhaled his scent. A little musky, a little citrusy, with a hint of petrichor, which I loved.

  “Small world,” he chuckled. There was a look in his eyes that warmed me to my toes.

  “You remember my friend, Sarah?”

  “Of course.” They exchanged pleasantries before he turned back to me. “It’s really nice to see you again, Deb.”

  His voice stroked me in places I didn’t want to admit. I struggled to remind myself he was too young.

  “You, too.” Something struck me. “You’re an estate agent, right?”

  He nodded and placed his hand on the back of the chair opposite me. “May I?”

  “What about your...friends?”

  He glanced over at the two girls, who now had pints in their hands. One of them waved him over. He held up a finger and then sat down with us.

  “Friends of mine. Well, really more friends of friends. I promised to show them around. So, what can I help you with?”

  “I’m thinking about selling my house. You can do that, right?”

  Was that a flash of disappointment in his eyes? “Sure. I can come out and give you a value, if you like. Talk about what do to next with regard to the sale and discuss finding you a new place.”

  “That would be great.” He dug out his wallet and handed me a card. “Let me get your number, and I’ll ring to set up an appointment.”

  I gave him my number, and he stood, albeit somewhat reluctantly. “It really was good to see you again, Deb,” he said finally. “Speak soon.”

  “Yes.”

  As he walked away toward the girls at the bar, Sarah leaned in toward me. “Girl, he is so into you.”

  “What? Tom? No, it’s his friend, Owen, who is interested.” Or at least I’d thought so.

  “Maybe this Owen guy is interested, but so is Tom. Like seriously interested.”

  I glanced at where he stood laughing with the girls at the bar. “I don’t think so. He’s way too young for me. That’s the sort of woman he probably dates.”

  Sarah snorted. “Maybe that’s what you think, but clearly Tom has other ideas. I can’t wait to see what happens with your ‘appointment.’” She practically snorted with laughter.

  I shook my head. As much as I’d like to think Tom was interested, I knew it wasn’t the case. He was being polite. And kind. Wasn’t he?

  Chapter 7

  THE MINUTE I GOT HOME that evening, I logged onto Groupmeet and searched for photography classes. I decided that, like the salsa, I’d target the area I wanted to be in rather than the one where actually lived. I selected Notting Hill and the areas around there: Knightsbridge, Mayfair, and so on.

  There were several groups interested in photography. They seemed to fall in two categories: the super serious professionals and artists or the hobbyists. I felt awkward about joining a professional group, seeing as how I had zero experience, but I didn’t feel I fit into the hobbyist category, either. There were no suitable classes I could see, so I pulled up my search engine and up popped one of those coupon deals for photography classes in Central London. Perfect.

  I quickly bought my coupon, then hopped over to the website to sign up for the class which started Tuesday. Then I leaned back in my chair and let out a sigh. I was doing this. I really was.

  All right, if I was going to do this, I was going all the way. I shot off a quick email to Kate, telling her my plan and asking if I could use the photos from her reception, then I joined one of those blogging websites and followed the steps to start a basic blog. Once that was done, I made my first entry. I titled it “Scenes from an Old Life” and posted a couple of snapshots I’d taken of things in and around my house. One was a closeup of a dripping faucet, the other of a dented street sign. I wrote a couple paragraphs about where I was with my life, surprising myself with something resembling raw honesty. Then I hit Publish. I was now officially a blogger.

  I glanced down at the card I’d placed next to my computer. Tom’s business card. My stomach gave a flutter. Yes, my life was about to change in more ways than one.

  TUESDAY I ARRIVED AT the photography class, camera in hand and excitement churning through my system. The class was in an old church that had been converted to an artists’ space. The stone walls had been whitewashed so the art stood out beneath the bright track lighting. The flagstone floor had been cleaned and polished so it gleamed beneath the softer light of the chandeliers. A small sign near the entrance proclaimed that live world music happened every Friday night, and there was a meditation pavilion in the back. Another sign with an arrow pointing down the hall read Photography Class.

  Inside the small classroom three people were sitting in creaky metal chairs at a long folding table. They looked up as I entered, eyeballing me as if judging my worthiness. I eyeballed them back. Who were they to say if I was worthy? Apparently I passed some test, because they all nodded in greeting and went back to staring at the front of the room. I took the chair closest to the door. Just in case.

  “Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late. Welcome to Photography for Beginners or, as I like to call it, What the Hell Do I Do with This Thing?” Laughter bubbled as the teacher made his way to the front of the class. Everything inside me froze. It was Owen.

  What were the odds? Of all the photography classes in a city of over eight million people, I’d picked the one taught by Owen. I hadn’t even known he was into photography. Was this fate? Kismet? The other evening had been beyond weird to the point of waving a red flag. But this... how often did this sort of coincidence happen?

  Owen placed his equipment on a smaller table next to the teaching podium and looked up. His eyes widened when he saw me. He smiled a little and cleared his throat.

  “My name is Owen Smythe. By day I work in IT. Boring, right? But by night I am a passionate photography junky. I recently had an exhibit in a local gallery here. Very exciting. So, while I’m no professional, I think we can learn a thing or two. Why don’t you introduce yourselves and tell us why you’re here and what you hope to learn. Let’s start with Deb over there. We take salsa together.” He grinned widely while everyone stared at us as if trying to imagine us dancing.

  Suddenly nervous I gave a little wave to the rest of the class. “Hi. I’m Deb. I enjoy taking photos and have had some compliments on them, so I thought I’d take the chance to learn more.” No way was I telling this room full of strangers I was attempting to make photography my business. They’d probably laugh me out of the room.

  “Max,” said a man with close-cropped hair and an enormously bushy beard, both bright red. His voice was a low, rumbly bass. “Planning an extended trip to the States next year, and I want to brush up on my photography skills before I go.” There were murmurs of interest.

  “Pixie,” said a t
iny Asian woman with bright pink hair. “I’m an artist. I use manipulated photos in my work. I’ve been using stock photo sites, but it would be a lot more cost effective and personal if I could take my own.” She slid her blue-framed glasses up her nose and crossed her arms over a flat chest. Everyone nodded and mumbled hello.

  “I’m Lawrence,” said the final student. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. Paunchy and slightly balding. “My doctor told me I needed to relax more, so I thought taking pictures of old churches would be the way to go. Not very good to be honest. Last batch was so blurry, looked like it was taken after tying one too many on, if you know what I mean. Thought a class might help me improve.”

  “Welcome, everyone.” Owen clapped his hands together. “We’ve got an hour and a half, so let’s get started.”

  Owen gave us a quick rundown on some of the basic camera settings, most of which I knew, and a few tips and tricks for lighting, angles, and framing. “Don’t go crazy buying the best equipment right away,” he reminded us. “You can get some great photos from point-and-shoot cameras. Trust me. Better to practice on those. Get some real skill, then decide if you want to go further. Okay, let’s practice taking photos of each other and objects in the room.”

  Feeling awkward, I grabbed my camera and asked Lawrence if he would sit for me. He beamed, happy to oblige. I took several shots of him standing against the plain white wall, fiddling with various settings as I went until I found one that really worked.

  After we’d all taken several shots, Owen asked for our SD cards and plugged them into his laptop, projecting the photos onto the wall. As he flipped through them, he complimented or offered tips on how the photo could have been improved.

  When he came to Lawrence’s photos of me, he paused. Titters filled the room. They were a big blur. The only reason you could tell it was me was my blue shirt. “Ah, well. These are interesting, Lawrence. Was the, erm, blur effect intentional?”