Girl After Dark

by Charlotte Eve

  He smiles, his eyes flashing.

  “I’m not reading your mind,” he laughs, “just your blog …”

  Oh my God, I think.

  “It’s you, isn’t it! You’re Prince C!”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “But you’re still Carson? That is your real name?”

  He nods again.

  This time I’m the one who’s laughing.

  “I had no idea that was you!” I say. “But it’s all starting to make sense now. But there’s one thing I still don’t understand. How did you find my blog in the first place? There are thousands of blogs out there, and I’m certainly not the only person on the internet writing about sex.”

  “It was the girls in my office,” he explains, “they’ve been talking about it for weeks. Everyone’s reading it. And, when I started reading it myself, I could totally see why. It’s really engrossing. You’re a really good writer, Honey.”

  “Okay, so you read my blog,” I say, “and you found me here. But the flowers? How did you find my address? That’s not something you can find out just by reading my blog, is it?”

  “Okay,” he says, holding his hands up, “you’ve got me there. I just hope this doesn’t sound too creepy but after we met again in the store? Well, I just felt so sure about you. And I knew that with your Dad there, we’d never be able to talk properly. But I was so scared of losing you for a second time. It felt like a one in a million chance — running into you like that — and I wasn’t prepared to let that slip through my fingers again. So …”

  At this he turns and puts his head in his hands, obviously embarrassed.

  “I had my driver follow you home. At a discreet distance of course. I would never just show up on your doorstep, I hope you understand that. But even so, I had to let you know how much I cared.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” he smiles. “This is fun and everything, and if you want, I promise we can come back some other time. But for now, what would you say to a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, somewhere where everyone’s fully dressed?”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’d really like that. Oh, and it’s Melissa. My name’s Melissa.”

  §

  In the cosy warmth of our diner booth, warming my hands on a cup of coffee with a huge slice of apple pie and ice cream in front of me, back in all my clothes, I’m starting to feel like I’m returning back to normal again.

  “How’s your face?” Carson asks.

  I touch my cheek and wince.

  “It’s okay,” I say, “but I’m so scared it’ll swell up. Is it bruised?”

  “A little,” he replies. “I can’t believe that bastard actually hit you.”

  “Nor can I,” I say, “but don’t worry, but I’m not gonna let it ruin my evening. Now if you’ll excuse me for a second, I’m just going to visit the ladies’ room.”

  I slide out of the booth and head towards the toilets.

  When I first look into the mirror, I gasp.

  To the side of my left eye is a shiny dark purple crescent of a bruise. It looks awful. But, luckily, I’ve had my fair share of practice covering up zits, so this can’t be too much different, can it?

  I pull my makeup bag from my purse and with the aid of my concealer, pretty soon you can’t tell. I’m really pleased with my handiwork, and I’m about to head out the door when I remember: Hey Melissa, you’re on a date after all.

  So I turn back to the mirror, put on some plum coloured lipstick, run a comb through my hair and I’m ready to join my date once more.

  “Wow,” says Carson when he sees my transformation. “Good as new.”

  “In that case,” I say, “can we start again? Like, totally reset things?”

  “Sure,” he says with a smile.

  “My full name is Melissa Lane,” I tell him. “I’m twenty-four years old. I grew up in London but my dad’s American, so I have duel citizenship. I used to be a fashion blogger, but I’m taking a break from that at the moment. I’m a coffee addict, a Scrabble expert and I’m terrified of earwigs. My favourite icecream flavour is butterscotch, my favourite colour in the world is lemon yellow and if you ever get me drunk enough, I’ll probably end up showing you that Molly Ringwald trick from The Breakfast Club. Okay, your turn.”

  “I’m not sure how I’m going to compete with that,” he grins. “But here goes … My name’s Carson Ashcroft, I’m twenty-nine, and I’m a native Manhattanite. I practice law for a non-profit organization, which makes my Stepmother, Esme, extremely unhappy as I refuse to do my duty, join the family firm, and make a killing in corporate law. I’m also a coffee addict, I’ve never played Scrabble but I was a high school chess champion. And I know it’s corny but I just really love Christmas. No, seriously, everything about it. Oh, and ever since I was about eleven years old? I’ve had the biggest crush on Molly Ringwald.”

  And just like that, it seems like we’ve known each other all our lives.

  Despite the crazy situation we’ve just been in, I feel safe with Carson. It’s getting late, but I don’t want to leave him. I stifle a yawn, battling hard against my tiredness. It seems so crazy that we’ve seen each other totally naked tonight, but we’ve done nothing more than simply hold hands. And I want him so bad right now. But where? I mean, it’s not as if he can come back to mine. Would it be too forward to invite myself over to his? But again, even as I’m thinking this, I yawn again.

  “I’m so sorry,” I explain. “It’s not you. I’m having a really nice time with you, I promise! But I’m just so … so … tired.”

  “Hey,” he smiles back. “Don’t worry. Listen. I’m going to put you in a taxi and make sure you get safely home. I don’t want your dad worrying about where you are.”

  I watch his hand slide across the table towards mine, sending a brief flash of electricity through me as his fingers slip over mine.

  “Believe me,” he says quietly. “I want nothing more than to take you home tonight with me, but under the circumstances, I think it’s best for you to go home.”

  He’s right, of course.

  And although I have to admit I’m a little disappointed not to be hugging a teddybear tonight instead of him, I’m secretly kind of thrilled and pleased at what a gentleman he’s being. This guy really cares about me, I realise with a shy smile.

  “Don’t worry,” he adds. “You’ll see me again.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “I will.”

  And this time, I’m leaving nothing to chance.

  “Give me your phone,” I say.

  “What?” he says.

  “Give me your phone,” I repeat.

  He hands it over with a quizzical look.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassure him, and after just a few quick taps, I hand the phone back again. “There,” I say. “Now you have my number.”

  I hand him my phone and he does the same.

  As we stand up to leave, I can’t quite believe it when he holds my coat out for me. I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before, I think as I slip my arms into the sleeves, smiling.

  And I feel his hand softly touching the base of my spine as he leads us out gently, into the crisp evening air.

  “Taxi!” he calls, his bright clear voice echoing out into the street and I can’t help but smile as I watch a classic yellow NYC cab pull up to the curb outside the Diner. This is all like something out of a movie.

  He turns to me, pulling me in close to him, lifting my face towards his, his big greeny-grey eyes burning down at me.

  “God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispers, moments before he kisses me.

  I close my eyes, feeling myself melt in his arms, my body softly trembling as his lips brush against mine, his hands moving into my hair.

  And then, like that, he’s pulled away again, opening the door to the cab for me and guiding me tenderly inside.

  “Tommorow!” I say.

  “What?” he says.
>
  “Tomorrow,” I repeat. “Meet me tomorrow.”

  “Great,” he calls back, raising his voice over the sound of the engine. “I’ll call you.”

  He shuts the door and gives me a playful bow from the street as the taxi pulls away from the curb. And as we whizz off down the street, I can’t help but turn in my seat and watch him disappear.

  The rest of the night goes by in a sleepy haze. I stare dreamily out of the window at the clear black night as the taxi speeds across the Brooklyn bridge. I might be exhausted but I feel myself buoyed up the apartment stairs to bed by the memory of Carson’s kiss.

  And as I fall into bed, the memory of his lips is the last thing on my mind before I fall into a deep, delicious sleep.

  I’m in the most amazing store. It didn’t look like much from the street - there was no sign out front. But down a dusty old staircase I glimpse a rack of clothes.

  I pick up the first item on the rack.

  Oh my God!

  Its vintage Chanel.

  I look at the ticket: it’s ten dollars. Wtf?! Why is it so cheap? They obviously don’t know how much it’s really worth …

  I pick up the next item. It’s the most amazing soft leather jacket. I slip it on — it’s the perfect size. And it’s also ten dollars.

  In fact, every item turns out to be more amazing than the last.

  I run through the store and it just gets bigger and bigger — the racks of clothes just keep appearing.

  But then there’s this noise.

  It’s an alarm — at first I think it’s the fire alarm. The assistant in the store is screaming at me to get out but I don’t want to leave.

  I have to go.

  I have to leave this all behind …

  It’s only when I open my eyes and look at the name on the display of my ringing cellphone that I realise that reality can, for once, be even better than my dreams.

  “Good morning,” he says, the moment I pick up.

  “Good morning,” I reply softly, still a little sleepy.

  “Did I wake you, sleepyhead?” he laughs.

  “I was having the most wonderful dream,” I sigh.

  “About me I hope?” he cuts in.

  “Not exactly,” I admit with a smile. “But there was this beautiful dress … And it was ten dollars.”

  I hear him laugh warmly on the other end of the line.

  “I guess I can’t compete with that,” he quips. “Listen, if you’re still serious about meeting today, I was thinking brunch? Can you meet me in Edward’s in Tribeca, at eleven?”

  “Sure,” I reply, thrilled at how decisive he is. I can’t quite remember the last time a guy actually took me out like that.

  “Great,” he says. “See you soon.”

  And with that he’s hung up the phone.

  I check the time on my phone: It’s 9am, and I’m meeting Carson at eleven. I bet to him that sounds like plenty of time to get ready. Guys have got it so easy. But what the hell am I gonna wear?! The date at the hotel, and the party last night — that was easy. Sexy black dress, which I didn’t wear for more than ten minutes anyway.

  That’s not gonna work for brunch, unless it’s a Pretty Woman themed restaurant …

  What does a guy like Carson even like in a girl, anyway? Is he a casual jeans-and-sweaters kind of guy? Or would he prefer me to wear heels? Dress up a little bit?

  Despite our instant connection, I realist that I still I know so little about him — no more than the handful of facts we discussed over coffee last night.

  But then another, stronger voice inside me chips in: he seems to like you already, so why don’t you just stop worrying about what a guy might want you to wear and be yourself!

  §

  I was always brought up to believe that being late was the height of rudeness. So this morning, despite the short time I have to get ready, I still make sure that I’m ten minutes early for my date with Carson. Luckily, I’ve got rather good at applying my makeup on the Subway recently.

  And I’m pleasantly surprised to see that he’s already waiting at a table for me. The place he’s chosen is beautifully furnished, but I hardly notice — my eyes latch onto him immediately, my breath once more taken away by just how gorgeous he is. His slightly unruly, floppy dark hair looks so inviting, I just want to run my fingers through it. And in the light, I realize that he’s got the most amazing cheekbones. I’m actually jealous of them.

  Looking at him, just sitting there, 11am on a Saturday morning, waiting for brunch like a normal guy, I realise just how crazy our last two encounters have been. First as total strangers in a hotel room, and then, last night — rescuing me like that. It’s all been a blur, a heady whirlwind. And here he is, just … normal. And this is practically the most amazing thing of all, I think with a smile.

  “You’re early,” I say as I reach the table, trying to ignore the fluttering butterflies in my tummy.

  “I don’t believe in being late,” he replies.

  “Me too,” I say, feeling the smile widen on my face.

  This is a really good sign, I think.

  “You look amazing,” he says. “Where did you get that dress?”

  I look down at what I’m wearing, pleased at his compliment. It’s a sleeveless sailor dress, navy and white.

  “I picked it up in the bargain bin of Beacon’s Closet last week while I was out shopping with my cousin,” I explain. “Except, it was like ten times too big for me and had this silly collar, so I did a little alteration! Since I moved here, I’ve been looking at lots of picture of Debbie Harry in New York in the seventies for inspiration recently, you see, so she’s my inspiration for this outfit.”

  “Wow,” he smiles. “I had no idea you were so creative. Most girls I know would spend a thousand dollars on a dress to wear for brunch, and they wouldn’t look half as good.”

  “To be honest,” I reply, “if I had a thousand dollars to spend on a dress for brunch, I probably would too! But I don’t, so, well, I have to improvise.”

  And I can’t help my curiosity, so I’m about to ask him what kind of girls he knows when the waiter arrives at our table and asks us if we’re ready to order.

  I’ve not even looked at the menu yet, but a quick glance tells me that I’m in luck. They’ve got exactly what I was hoping for — pancakes and blueberries, and coffee of course.

  Carson orders French toast and then, after a little deliberation, we both smile secretively — like we’re on exactly the same page; after all, this is a celebration, the world seems to have thrown us back together again and we want to toast our good fortune — and so we order mimosas, too.

  “So, your dress,” Carson says, once we’re on our own again, “is that going to feature on your fashion blog?”

  “Like I said last night, that’s kind of on hiatus at the moment,” I say with a sigh.

  “Why?” he says. “I’m sure lots of people would want to hear about your New York style evolution. You obviously have quite a knack for fashion.”

  “It’s a long story,” I reply. “But I’ll try and give you the Cliff Notes version. I was doing really well. My blog — and my YouTube channel — were both really popular, which was kind of crazy actually. I had all these advertisers and sponsors, and sometimes people would even recognise me in the street. It was a bit like being famous. But I guess they only wanted to see a certain version of me. And then something kind of bad happened, that people didn’t like, and the sponsors dropped me quicker than a hot potato. So now, all people want to see me wear is a scarlet letter, if you know what I mean?”

  I find myself saying more than I’d planned, but I think it’s because he seems so understanding, so genuine …

  “But I didn’t want to give up writing,” I continue. “I couldn’t be my old self anymore, so I became Girl After Dark instead. I wanted to try some things out, things I’d wondered about but never done before, and well, that’s how I met you.”

  I smile.

  “But what
about you?” I ask. “What’s a guy like you doing internet dating? Don’t you have a line of girls waiting in thousand dollar dresses to go out to brunch with you?”

  “Not exactly,” he smiles back modestly. “A lot of the girls I know … Well, they’re only interested in money. In hedge fund guys. You know, that kind of thing. They don’t want to date a guy like me, working pro-bono when he could be making a killing in corporate law. But that suits me. I don’t want a girl who’s only interested in money, anyway.”

  He sighs and shakes his head.

  “But the problem isn’t that,” he explains. “It’s my stepmother, Esme. She’s obsessed with the ‘family name’. And she says it’s high time that I got a girlfriend, and I know exactly the kind of girl she’s got in mind for me. Some airhead clothes-horse from the Upper East Side with an expensive education but nothing in her brain. A girl with a trust fund, who doesn’t need a job. All the better for popping out grandchildren, while she spends her days shopping, and cocktail hour comes earlier and earlier each day … After all, that’s what Esme’s life is like. I don’t know why she’s so insistent on continuing the misery for a new generation. I just think there’s more to life, don’t you?”

  I nod and smile sympathetically.

  He just seems so grounded, so down to earth. He doesn’t have to say anymore to let me know that he comes from money — like real money. I realise that he can buy anyone or anything that he wants.

  And does he really want to be downtown, here with me, eating French toast?!

  I can’t quite believe my luck.

  “So to answer your question,” he continues, “Esme was threatening to set me up on all these dates with all these girls I knew I’d have nothing in common with. I was running out of excuses so I told Esme that I’d take the matter into my own hands. So I started internet dating, just to shut her up. It wasn’t really my scene, you know. I don’t believe in rating people just on looks alone. But then I saw this girl and there was something about her — she was beautiful, sure, but there was something more than that. She had so much life behind her eyes, and I just knew I had to get to know her …”