Stranger in the Wharf

by H. A. Nicola

  Unfortunately, an ill-fated attempt at online dating had ensured a furtive scurry back to relative obscurity for several months. Against her better judgement and fuelled by a sense of daring rather than an acute desire to find a mate, she had added her name to a few online dating sites, uploading a recent picture which she felt represented a woman who would like to date, rather than was desperate to date. After eliminating a few scary options, and several more dubious profiles, she had come across the details of an Asian gentleman that she knew was bound to be younger than her, probably around ten years younger by her estimation. If she was prepared to be honest, her motivation was the cute pictures that represented him whereby he was posing confidently by a pool which looked to be somewhere in the Mediterranean as indicated by the stunning sun-kissed ambience, and the brilliant blue of the sea behind him. His responses via text had been reasonably intelligent, and perhaps his quick replies had appeased her ego somewhat.

  After a few days, he had offered his phone number; and following some consideration, she decided to initiate contact with Kamal; and over a period of a few weeks, they had built up a steady stream of communication. Had she been paying attention, she would have noticed that his voice was slightly jarring, but perhaps their joint enthusiasm for fitness and well-being caused her to overlook such minor details. He even offered to train her when she had told him she was considering joining a local gym. He described in detail the kind of workouts that he would devise for her according to her goals and expressed in no uncertain terms, his appreciation for women that made the effort to look after themselves. Cayenne had to admit she was beginning to feel a little optimistic about this guy, even as a possible candidate to accompany her on nights out. Any doubts that surfaced would soon dissipate with just a glance at the humble-looking, striking eastern native who peered at her from his profile photo with his piercing uncompromising eyes that seemed to say, “This is me. Take it or leave it.” No apparent pretence. Eventually, he offered to arrange a meetup. Nothing too adventurous—a meal and a drink. An opportunity to continue their discussions face-to-face.

  “Mom, make sure you meet him somewhere really public,” Diego had admonished when she told him that a date had been set to meet Kamal. As each day passed leading up to the appointment, Cayenne noticed a tension building up with her eldest son who she suspected was beginning to experience unexpected mounting concern for his mother embarking on this new venture. On the actual date night, he could barely bring himself to look at her whilst tersely reminding her to keep her phone on, as it had always angered him when he couldn’t reach her immediately. He warned her not to stay out too late. She chuckled to herself wondering when he had suddenly become her guardian and tried to determine precisely when the tables had turned. When he escorted her to the front door and waited for her to disappear into the elevator, the steely look in his eye made her feel as though she were a teenager exercising the audacity to embark on an independent social life. She could just about hear his deep monotone voice as the doors closed in front of her, and the elevator began its descent to the ground floor,

  “Make sure you call me every ten minutes…”

  She had arranged for Kamal to pick her up in his car outside the nearest Docklands Light Rail Station, and she had been instructed to look out for a black Mercedes. She stood in her knee-high stiletto boots, shivering slightly in the cold night air, watching the cars go by and casually observing the people milling around, crossing at the traffic lights and alighting from the latest train arrival on the rail tracks overhead, high above the main road. After around five minutes of waiting, a black rather ordinary-looking Mercedes pulled up opposite her, and the driver’s side window gradually wound down, and a bronze hand emerged and waved at her. Without looking too intently at the features of her escort, her attentions temporarily diverted towards having to navigate a busy road in vertiginous kinky boots, she tried to appear demure and relaxed as she circled the vehicle and edged open the passenger door. She sat down in the comfortable leather chair appreciating how warm it felt and pulled the kinky boots in after her, in her best imitation of an actress appearing at a premiere attempting to retain her modesty in front of a crowd of waiting photographers armed with zoom lenses and flashlights. Instantly, she could see that the person sitting opposite her only bore a vague similarity to the profile picture and consequently the image that she had now built up in her mind during their month-long affiliation. His thick luscious locks that once fell attractively over his forehead were nowhere to be seen, and Cayenne could now positively date his profile by at least five years owing to the recession of his hairline. He was dressed in a plain shirt and smart trousers, which made him appear more plain rather than smart. She could confidently hazard a guess that any passion he may have had for fitness was now as challenged as the follicles that had disappeared from his scalp. He clearly hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in recent years, and what a pity that talking to someone by phone and text seemed to disguise signals of any possible personality disorder that meeting them face-to-face could reveal.

  They had barely exchanged pleasantries when he could clearly no longer avoid the abject shock emanating from her eyes.

  “You look the same as your picture,” said Kamal in a robotic voice that cast her mind back to Ocean’s previous generic schooling facility. “Do I look the same?”

  The extent of her shock made any thought of sugar coating the truth futile.

  “No…” For some reason, she felt no compulsion to elaborate.

  “I look different?” he asked revealing an astute gluttony for punishment.

  “Yes…”

  “Okay…”

  “Bye then,” she had replied in what she sincerely hoped was an empathetic voice and climbed back out of the vehicle with a speed which belied the vertigo that accompanied her entrance and disappeared into the night without a backward glance.

  She dialled Diego’s phone to enquire if he wanted anything from the local Tesco, which she passed on the way back to her apartment.

  “Mummy?”

  “Yes, it’s me…”

  “You okay?” his voice sounded anxious.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Is it really you? What’s the password?”

  Cayenne uttered a word from their favourite family superhero movie which they used when answering the door to their home.

  Once he was reassured, Diego continued, “So where are you? How long you gonna be?”

  “I’m at Tesco; I’ll be ten minutes…”

  Chapter 3

  Cayenne eventually forced herself to join the local gym albeit with a sense of reluctance, as it had not been something she had ever envisioned herself doing. In fact, it wasn’t long ago that she had made a point of running past this same glass-fronted branch of the popular Nuffield Health Chain on her early-morning jogs and tried hard not to snigger at the treadmill runners peering back at her through the huge semi-frosted windows and thinking why on earth would you pay what must undoubtedly be an expensive fee for what appeared to be an extremely high-tech, extensively equipped gym; simply to run on a treadmill when surely she was enjoying the same exercise absolutely free with wonderful views and fresh air into the bargain.

  After two years in this concrete paradise, Cayenne was still enamoured when strolling around her zone-2 borough and couldn’t fail to remain tickled with excitement, like a child in Lapland, at her good fortune. Not a day went by without her thanking the gods for the opportunity to live amongst the thriving energy of the inner city with its excellent transport links, which could have her in Oxford Street in 20 minutes; she often mused smugly.

  She delighted that on bright, mildly cold afternoons, like today, when she was heading back towards home after attending Ocean’s school assembly, that she had the time to take a wander in Canary Wharf for a coffee and a rare sweet treat from the assortment of beverage outlets and patisseries along with the masses of city workers spilling out onto the streets to escape the corporate bat
tles taking place in hidden domains.

  She found the unengaging crowds a perfect way to lose herself for a moment in the faceless ensemble and be carried along by the throngs around the elegant shopping malls with their glass walls, immaculate from the constant attention of men in smart uniform, admiring the polished escalators and secluded corridors where a lone pianist could often be found serenading passers-by with the strains of a classical playlist.

  Cayenne was well-aware that her demeanour and body language could often be described as standoffish; and her fierce facial expression, a deterrent to any social interaction, owing possibly to the after-effects of some of the toxic relationships of her past and misjudged friendship choices. She now felt that she had finally made some progress on her journey to self-discovery, which the move to London had accelerated rapidly.

  Diego had recalled many times how concerned he had been about his mother’s increasing depression during their time on the South Coast.

  “Mum, I don’t think you realise how despondent you were…” He would remind her. “I remember coming in from school, and you would be just sitting there, perched on the edge of the sofa…”

  “Oh yeah, I never actually sat on the sofa properly, did I?”

  “No. You would just sit there like this…” She would watch with mild amusement as her eldest child demonstrated her stiff, remote posture, and her distant gaze, as he imitated how she stared at the television almost oblivious to surroundings.

  Raising three children virtually alone, and with little outside support, had not helped matters. She had grown to accept that she was responsible for some of the poor choices she had made, even though she had been young and ill-equipped to know better with only vague cautionary tales and minimal words of generational wisdom to draw from for guidance; and as a result, she had determined that her own style of parenting would be considerably different.

  She decided that she would bombard her own children from every angle with the lessons from her own experiences, and what she had learned, whilst allowing them the space and support to make informed decisions, to ensure that they would seldom experience the same kind of vulnerability that often left her feeling as though there was no voice of counsel in moments of uncertainty.

  Her daughter’s request from that morning over breakfast suddenly popped into her head. She had just happened to mention that the latest edition of David Walliam’s book series had just been released, and she had just happened to wonder whether her mum had seen it yet.

  Cayenne promised that she would look out for it the next time she went to Waterstones; and as luck would have it, Waterstones was beckoning as she prepared to dismount the escalator.

  There was something about the institutional book store that she had always found intriguing and comforting, which went way back to her teenage years when she would often get lost whilst browsing and emerge hours later having fallen deeply into a fantasy fictional plot or become totally absorbed into someone’s inspirational life story. The cavernous, warren-like ambience, and discreet, soft lighting and hidden corners always seemed to provide a welcoming contrast to the hustle and bustle of the streets outside.

  The children’s section was located on the middle level which opened out onto the first floor of the Cabot Place Mall. There was a friendly assistant who had clearly been accosted for the same book by other anxious parents and seemed to read her mind as she wandered aimlessly around the store. The tall thin lady, who sported shoulder-length, overly highlighted hair and a printed floral blouse, echoed her daughter’s enthusiasm confirming that this particular edition was in her opinion the best book of the series so far, and that her own daughter was devouring it as they spoke.

  Feeling decidedly pleased with herself at the thought of her daughter’s face when she returned from school to find the book strategically placed on her brilliant white ladder desk or perhaps casually propped up on the bottom bunk, she glanced at the time on her phone and hurried back down the escalators and out of the plush glass, metal-framed doors leading out into the street, glancing furtively to her left to see if the bus was approaching. If she was quick, she would just have time to get home, change clothes and head to the gym for her yogalates class.

  She had just negotiated the slow traffic under Canary Wharf Pier and spun around to await the D8 bus to Crossharbour when…

  “Excuse me.”

  She had already subconsciously suspected that the tall, well-built man, in slightly casual business attire, that had woven into her peripheral vision where she stood had planned to approach her; but in the blink of an eye, he had clearly thought better of it and pretended to continue walking along the road.

  She imagined that when his day had begun, he would have had a perfectly crafted tie, holding the neck of his now-open shirt in place, and that the blazer component of his suit was perhaps now slung across the back of his office chair; and that his tousled hair, which seemed to have a trail of finger strands running through it, stemmed from perfectly coifed origins.

  His hesitation did not surprise her in the slightest. She had almost come to expect it after years of unknowingly honing a rather frosty exterior. The acerbic orbit in which she manoeuvred until recently, whenever outside of her home environment, was enough to deter even the most confident individual.

  Certainly, few had made an obvious attempt at an approach in the two years since her return to London, and those who had, were no doubt still reeling from the consequent rebuttal.

  From just behind her, she heard…

  “Could you tell me how to get to Greenwich from here?”

  The returning stranger had clearly obtained some much needed courage.

  Uncharacteristically, she found herself pondering the logistics of the stranger’s desired location—perhaps in part to reward him for his bravery. But before she could politely decline to expand upon her limited navigation skills, the stranger had clearly read her hesitation as a positive indication to proceed with his true intentions.

  “Actually, I’m going to be honest here, I’ve just followed you from Waterstones…” He paused to gauge her response. His words hung in the air for a moment as her mind went from surprise to slight concern, followed by a feeling that distinctly resembled flattery.

  “I was wondering whether you would join me for a glass of wine…” His hands were in his pockets, and he was smiling. Not broadly but with an air of confidence.

  She was about to shake her head in an obvious refusal when he continued,

  “Oh, go on. Please. I’ve had a really bad day at work; it’s been a really rough day, and it would be nice to have some company. What do you say?”

  Taken aback by both the proposition and more so by his blatant honesty, which she had to admit was refreshingly enticing, especially given the wall of hostility he had contemplated, she was aware that even though she was shaking her head, there was little conviction in her response which clearly egged him on to persevere.

  “You do drink wine?”

  “Yes,” she replied; no doubt the sparkle in her eye confirming her partiality towards her preferred tipple.

  “Just one glass won’t hurt, will it?” His gaze was steady and self-assured, not at all pathetically pleading.

  She reminded herself of her recent resolution to make an effort to be more open and sociable. Glancing briefly at the time on her phone, to her surprise, she tentatively acquiesced.

  “Thank you,” he smiled appreciatively and released a sigh of relief. “Shall we go to Bar One?”

  She nodded blankly, having no knowledge of local bars owing to her hibernation and lack of social activity.

  Walking one step behind enabled her to observe the stranger more closely.

  His slightly-too-long floppy hair which she considered a rather youthful style for a man, who had to be in her estimation, in the region of 40, simply refused to submit, resisting the constant strokes from what she suspected were nervous hands or a formed habit; and he clearly had no real intention of taming
the once chestnut strands, which were succumbing rapidly to imposing salt-and-pepper tones.

  He had a good strong build, not at all athletic but certainly well-managed. He had an overly confident saunter which was designed to disguise the awkward, penguin-like plod, which she suspected would become more apparent the less self-conscious he became.

  His hands were firmly stuffed in his pockets in-between hair strokes, and she could see that her acceptance of a glass of wine had delivered him a healthy dose of testosterone.

  He is almost attractive, she pondered. His swagger was intriguing. He was clearly attempting to keep any sign of self-consciousness well-hidden. She wondered whether he was well-versed in this afternoon practice as aside from the fact that she did not possess the ego to assume that her flawless beauty had caused him to stray from his usual lunchtime routine; his stride was not of someone who was treading cautiously on unknown territory.

  She sat at the small wooden window table overlooking the terrace of this stylish city bar, which was evidently in recovery from the lunchtime rush. She moved the uncleared debris, left over by the previous occupants, to one side to make room for the large glass of red wine that the stranger had disappeared to the bar to retrieve and gazed out onto the nearby harbour with its exotic boats varying in size from tiny, small-party affairs to large multi-deck monsters—the size of a large apartment.