Stranger in the Wharf

by H. A. Nicola

  Hours later, she glided across Peninsula Square towards the main entrance of the 02. She had never been to Gaucho before. She had passed through the 02 many times with the children, to see a movie in the upstairs cinema or to eat out at one of the friendly eateries. Usually, they ended up visiting two or three different places, as Diego always favoured Five Guys flame-grilled burgers as he knew exactly what went into them. Sugar’s favourite was Nando’s. Ocean’s only requirement was that he could have a second helping of whatever protein they decided upon.

  Gaucho was situated on the corner near the 02 main entrance. She must have passed it several times before and not noticed the discreet exterior and certainly didn’t expect to find an elegant restaurant amidst all the family-friendly burger bars and American-style joints that they usually frequented.

  Once inside, she was very impressed with what she found. The foyer boasted an unapologetic vision of monochrome which was echoed throughout the entire restaurant. The carpets were black, and the black walls were offset by several floor-to-ceiling mirrors and white leather furniture. It was decadent and old-fashioned glam.

  “Hello. Table for one?” the receptionist approached her with an unusual accent and a curious expression on her face, as though she was unaccustomed to seeing unfamiliar faces.

  “Is a Mr Halpern-Smith here?” she asked forthrightly in an effort to dispel whatever dubious thoughts that appeared to be forming in the receptionist’s mind.

  “Halpern-Smith?” she adopted a blank expression and retreated behind her desk to check the large book that lay open on the high counter. She shook her head and came back around the desk.

  “No, no, we don’t have a reservation for that name. You are welcome to wait in the bar?”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.”

  “Would you like me to take your coat?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll keep it on for the time being.” She wasn’t quite ready to expose her figure in the black-fitted jumper dress that she had selected.

  She followed the tall slim lady, who was dressed smartly in an off-white crisp shirt and pin-striped pencil skirt, into a large circular open-plan seating area with groups of white leather-tub chairs nestled together. The effect of the lighting on the black and white interior was dazzling. She felt like she was walking onto a glamorous 1940s film set rather than a restaurant bar.

  She opted for a table at the far end of the room so that she could take a good look at the stranger when he arrived. She could just about remember what he had looked like.

  “Would you like something to drink?” the lady asked.

  “Yes, please, can I have a glass of red wine?”

  “Yes, of course. Would you prefer a Malbec or perhaps a Shiraz?”

  “I’ll take a Shiraz please…”

  “Shiraz. Certainly Madame…”

  Just as she had tasted the wine and confirmed that it was acceptable to allow the waitress to fill up her glass, the stranger suddenly appeared.

  “Hi, how are you?” He bent down to kiss her cheek and eyed her approvingly.

  “Hi. I’m good thanks,” she nodded immediately feeling a little flustered.

  “How’s the wine?”

  “It’s lovely…”

  “What can I get you to drink, sir?” the waitress had been standing silently watching the exchange.

  “Oh, I’ll have the same please…”

  “Of course. I’ll be with you in a moment, sir…”

  “It’s great to see you again. Thanks for coming…” He turned his attention toward her and positioned himself directly opposite—his eyes scanning her. Positive appreciation was emanating from him which flooded her senses. She immediately gave herself permission to relax. This was a new thing, and she liked it.

  His long, floppy fringe was hovering over his brow; and even though his glasses reflected flickers of light from the art deco light fixtures, she could tell that there was genuine sparkle in his eyes. He had a long thin nose and thin lips. Not too thin though, not typically white thin like two thin strips of ham, she observed. He was just about kissable. His teeth were discoloured, which was forgivable given that her own had long since lost their brilliance, and the bottom row of incisors looked overcrowded and uneven. She wondered why someone of his obvious means wouldn’t have addressed this matter. He was wearing a pink pin-striped shirt and dark pin-striped trousers. She noted how he had perfected a confident walk as though certain of his perception of having some kind of allure. He seemed to like striding around without the jacket to his suit and with his shirt tightly belted into his trousers, which indicated to her an esteemed level of body confidence. Just as the first time they met, he maintained a strong bond with his hair. She could tell that he loved the feel of it, and the confidence it gave him. She dreaded to think how he would cope if the barely visible thin patch at the top of his forehead, turned out to be the onset of recession.

  “Are you hungry? Shall we have a meal? The food is good here…” She liked the way in which his eyes glazed over with a nurturing concern, whenever he directed a question at her.

  “I’m not really hungry, to be honest…”

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our… ‘Rules of Engagement’,”

  She sipped her wine and stared confidently at him. She felt powerful knowing that her very gaze caused him to be slightly unnerved. “Have you thought any more about what… Bethany might want to happen. What she’s looking for?”

  “To be honest, this isn’t exactly something that I’m used to”

  “Yes… I can see that. You’re a strikingly beautiful woman. You deserve some high-end treatment. Frankly, I find it rather hard to believe that you don’t have men queueing at the door.”

  “I’m not exactly what you would call… a social butterfly. Believe it or not, even though I am supremely confident in general, I can be socially awkward. Sometimes I think that I would like to develop more of a social circle, but over the years I haven’t found it easy making friends; but I think I have high standards for friendship, and I won’t compromise.” She giggled at his expression. He looked dazzled by her words. “I’m not entirely sure I would make a good friend either. I like my own space, I value my time. Outside of children and the gym, I don’t really have time for much else.”

  “That’s extraordinary. You must have family or some close friends though, right?” There was that antipodean lilt again.

  “I’m from Torquay originally, so the family are mostly there. We aren’t a particularly close family. Even when we lived there, we didn’t see them very much. I don’t really have friends. I have a few acquaintances I suppose, from the gym or my children’s school, but I wouldn’t necessarily class them as friends. I suppose I’m something of a loner. What about you? Do you have a lot of friends?”

  “Yeah… University will do that for you. I’ve got a group of around four or five guys that I would say are good friends. One of them I go running with every week, although he’s far more agile than I am. He’s into cardio and weights, and that kind of thing. I don’t have the coordination for all that.” He laughed self-deprecatingly and soothed himself running his hands through his thick hair. “What kind of exercise are you into?”

  “I’ve always kept relatively fit, and I used to go running every morning, and I’ve always relied on DVDs, but I’ve recently become a member of my local gym. I never really considered myself a gym person before. In fact, I remember distinctly running past the gym every morning and stifling a laugh at the people staring out from the treadmills and looking at them as if to say: ‘I’m doing the exact same thing but for free’. But I found myself going in there one day and enquiring about the facilities, and they showed me around; and before I knew it, I was booked in for a trial and complimentary personal training session, and here I am,” she raised both hands in acquiescence.

  He was listening intently. “How often do you go?” She couldn’t quite decipher whether his expression was of appreciation or i
ntimidation.

  “Every day.”

  “What kind of things do you do? Are you into the cross-fit thing?” He stopped short of rolling his eyes.

  “Kind of. I do cardio and strength training which I think are pretty similar, well… in that they are fast-paced and extremely difficult at least, but I like to do a bit of everything. I also do boxing classes and yoga, and occasionally I’ll do pilatés.”

  “Wow! So listen, I’m thinking it would be great to meet up again. My company has a contract with the North Greenwich Hotel, and I’m there for meetings sometimes. It would be nice if you could meet me there next week. Let me get to know Bethany some more.”

  She nodded, still contemplating whether or not to branch out of her comfort zone or retreat hastily back into her current reclusive existence.

  “I guess it couldn’t hurt to see how well Bethany and Jon get on,” she giggled into her glass suddenly, unable to make eye contact.

  “Great. I’ll update you of the time over the next few days, but it’ll be around midday. How does that sound?”

  Chapter 5

  At the last minute, Cayenne had decided to get a taxicab to North Greenwich. This would give her much needed moments to steel herself for what she was about to embark on. What on earth was she doing; going to a hotel to meet a virtual stranger, knowing full well what he had in mind. She tried to tell herself that this is what the vast majority of people did. For some women, this was a normal weekly occurrence. Perhaps it was about time she got with the program. It was only harmless fun, wasn’t it? He didn’t appear to be an ogre, so that she couldn’t retreat if she felt any discomfort. “Just go with it. Open your mind Cay,” she scolded herself.

  When she eventually strode into the hotel after the doorman had kindly escorted her from the taxi, the nerves were becoming more and more prominent. Or was it excitement. She couldn’t decide. At least taking the cab was the right decision, as the long walk to the hotel from the train station would have made her feet sore. Stepping into the reception area, she tried to dominate the sudden onset of self-consciousness, as though the doorman and the lady behind the large opulent reception desk could immediately tell that she was up to no good. Just as well she couldn’t visibly blush.

  “Excuse me, which way is the lift?”

  The receptionist, a short lady with a blonde bobbed haircut resting just above her broad shoulders, on any other given day would have passed as a relatively normal friendly person; however, today it was plainly obvious that she was the very emblem of guile and subterfuge, eyeing Cayenne curiously; her gaze lingering on the gold-tip burgundy boots. She pointed to the corridor to her left, “Just at the end of the corridor on the right, madam.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cayenne could feel the woman’s eyes boring into her back, much of which was exposed through her backless top, as she strode in the direction that had been pointed out to her, making an effort to squeeze her glutes with every step knowing that the tight black leggings she was sporting were providing generous insight.

  Moments later, she stepped out onto the fourth floor, as directed in the series of emails she had received earlier. Room 425, she discovered, was at the very end of the corridor immediately to the left. Pausing for a moment to collect herself, she knocked twice, slightly harder than she would normally but stopping short of an abrupt bang. She stood back straightening her spine and pinning her shoulders in place. She was uncertain quite what or in fact who would be greeting her. Would it be Kenneth or would it be Jon? Would she be able to tell the difference? Was this question even relevant?, bearing in mind she didn’t know Bethany any more than he did. “Well… this is your chance to explore,” she chided herself just as the door swung open, and there stood… It was definitely Jon, standing proudly with one hand on the door, and a glass of something that looked distinctly champagne like in his other hand. He had a cocky smirk on his face, and she couldn’t ignore the disconcerting fact that his right foot was poised in a dance-like pose resting on the ball of his foot in some kind of plié, which immediately gave her stomach the strong urge to reconnect her with her breakfast. Jon was clearly in theatrical mode; although to her, he resembled more of a seedy B-movie candidate.

  “Hi,” he drawled in a tone that he perhaps perceived Tom Cruise would use in an effort to seduce a femme fatale. He would be wrong. It turned her off immediately. She could feel herself getting colder by the second. Any notion of titillating enjoyment drained from her body.

  Luckily for him, he didn’t appear to notice this.

  Just as she was beginning to wonder whether his newly acquired Texan drawl would continue for the whole afternoon…

  “You look fantastic.” His eyes scanned her. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Yes please.” He picked up the bottle of what turned out to be white wine from the mini-bar that was resting already opened on the table and poured some into a waiting glass and handed it to her. She wasn’t accustomed to drinking white wine, a fact he might have observed from their previous two encounters. The deep freeze was rising steadily, and she was certain he would soon see the frost in her eyes. He had disrobed himself of his trousers, the same pin-striped ones he had worn the last time they met, which were now slung over the back of a nearby chair. His favourites, she surmised, and was wearing only a light blue shirt which he had unbuttoned to his lower, slightly hairy chest. Whatever underwear he had on were thankfully hidden. There was no hint of affluence in his attire. Simple practical uniformity, as though he had been directed to an accountant’s uniform website and ordered the standard package. Nothing to indicate flare or individuality. No evidence of haute couture or any obvious signs of quality in the fabric or lining. Probably designed to draw minimal attention to himself, but she suspected more than likely driven by a need to fit in.

  “You look great,” he repeated. She walked over to the bed and perched on the edge, placing her black leather jacket and her burgundy leather bag with gold clasps, perfectly matching her boots, on the floor beside her. He was striding towards her now; and without warning, he took the as yet untouched glass from her hand in one suave swipe, moving as though there was music playing in his head; in a failed attempt at debonair and in a manner that he appeared to have practised several times before with no regard for improvement, placed it down on the table with one hand and cupped the back of her head with the other before pulling her to her feet. His mouth was open, and his eyes were flitting over her as though contemplating where best to lick an ice cream cone at the imminent melting point.

  Suddenly his tongue was in her mouth and then out again. He was practically licking her with dramatic juvenile strokes, much like a child licking an ice-lolly, as though she was a thing. A thing that he was proud to have captured and couldn’t wait to tell his friends about. He was abrupt and full of himself which indicated that the women in his past or current life had mistakenly communicated that he was executing with expertise. Had no one ever told him that this was a far cry from a lesson in seduction? Even she knew that and her experience would look minimal to most socially active teenagers.

  She began to feel nauseous as she responded in kind to his tongue’s command.

  His hands were on her behind but with uncertainty at first, as though the firmness and structure caught him by surprise, though any qualms rapidly transforming to the fierce enthusiasm of an ancient explorer overcome with mesmerising gratitude in finding that the earth was in fact round and not flat.

  He eventually pulled back from his tongue excursion and looked at her dreamily and appeared pleased with himself. His face had adopted a dramatic snarl as though trying to convey sexual hunger, similar to a wild cat about to devour its prey.

  To her relief, he picked up her glass again, barely taking his eyes from her and in a final choreographed swoop, handed her the wine. While she drained the contents hastily, he sauntered around the large bed and dived onto the covers turning to look at her as if expecting Olympic applause. He reached out his ar
m to invite her to join him.

  She considered whether to bolt now? In seconds, she could grab her belongings and be back in reception faster than Florence Griffiths-Joyner. Within the hour, she could be at home with a glass of her preferred red, pretending that this afternoon was simply a figment of her imaginary thoughts. Before she could deliberate any longer, she decided to go with it. Don’t be too hasty, she counselled inwardly. Things may yet improve.

  He quickly removed his shirt, throwing it casually over a nearby baroque style red-and-green-striped antique chair exposing shapeless, ill-fitting black boxer shorts, much like the ones she would grab in Primark for her sons during a tight budget month. He lay back onto the pillows gallantly, with his legs wide apart, adopting a pose that had previously been met with approval or enthusiasm; though she debated on which planet this could have occurred.

  She removed her sleeveless top as though in some kind of trance, the dramatic slash at the back rose all the way up to her shoulder blades revealing the delicate curvature of her lower back and offering a deliberate glimpse at her genetically lifted derriere.

  She pulled off her knee-high, deep-red boots with the gold toe-tip that coordinated with her shoulder bag and lipstick and blush cream and eye shadow and slipped out of her glittery leggings.

  He took off his glasses that had developed a film of condensation and gaped at her bare body with the longing of an orphan on visiting day. Like a man whose wildest fantasy was coming true. He was literally dribbling with glee.

  She stifled the recurring nausea and climbed onto the bed beside him. He made another attempt to obliterate her mouth with mechanical strokes of his tongue revealing his misplaced arrogance. He was clearly enjoying himself with absolutely no notion of her own enjoyment.

  Suddenly he got up and sauntered confidently towards the table where his phone lay. Whilst he was checking his phone, he popped his hip in a dramatic and highly unattractive manner for anyone other than a female catwalk model at the end of a runway at fashion week and glanced at her as if willing her to be patient and wishing to assure her that the seduction will continue shortly. She attempted to reassure him non-verbally that he could take all the time in the world on the other side of the room. She swallowed hard. Something on his phone caused him to screw up his face and run tracks through his hair.