"Just kidding," he said.
"I'm glad to hear that," Michael answered. "Very glad." He rubbed the back of his neck, a mixture of feelings coursing through his mind. Pleasure that Sean was taking the value of his decision seriously, a twinge of jealousy that it was so. At once, he felt ashamed of himself for letting it creep into his thoughts.
"I'm under the impression that maybe Kate's not exactly happy here," said Michael, after a moment of deliberating what to say. "I mean, she seems like someone who would appreciate the efforts you make–the thought behind them making her happy, that is." Fumbling for the right words, he had fallen into an awkward subject even with the closeness of himself and Sean to explain the choice.
"Kate said when she lost her parents, that she had a hard time adjusting," said Sean. "She would mention it sometimes on the set. Not a lot of stories about it, but enough to make it obvious it was rough." With a sigh of frustration, he closed the laptop's lid. "So I guess I feel I'm up against a wall trying to change things for her. I might need help making her see that."
Reaching across, he punched Michael in the arm, gently. "That's where you come in," he said.
Michael's eyes wandered towards a corner of the room, avoiding Sean's gaze. "I might not be the best person to help," he suggested. "Matters of the heart aren't my area of expertise, as you're aware." He felt himself weakening under Sean's stare, his friend's eyes like a magnet polarizing his feelings towards their past like a binding contract of friendship.
"That's why you're here, man," said Sean. "I trust you. I need you." The hand that punched Michael's arm now squeezed his shoulder with a gentle shake; the feelings of envy and personal motives seemed criminal to Michael suddenly.
He smiled at Sean's beaming countenance. "You can count on me," he answered. His hand squeezed Sean's fingers in return, a grip that he released along with his momentary reservations.
It was a promise he wouldn't be able to escape; that was something of which he was keenly aware. Even when he unwrapped the note Sean left propped against his doorknob on the morning of the Paris press tour departure, he kept the promise floating at the surface of his mind like a force against future questions about his part in all this.
Inside, a list scribbled in the form of a note: Dear Mick, leaving at five a.m., won't be back until party tomorrow night at eight. Run into London today and pick up the tuxes for me and drop off this ring inscription at jeweler's shop enclosed, will you? Will have some other errands there and in town while I'm in Spain, too, so keep your calendar open as the best man for a couple more days, okay? Sean.
London. He grimaced at the thought of long hours wandering around in a strange city, asking tourists for directions to place none of them had ever encountered, negotiating with merchants in a confrontational manner he avoided when frequenting the corner shops in his neighborhood. Although he knew this was what the position entailed, there was a sense of personal loss in holding it that he could not explain.
*****
"Passengers boarding the train should be aware..." intoned the light English voice over the station's public announcement speakers, sounding hollow and lost amidst the constant murmur of public conversation. Jostled against a woman carrying a child and a grocery bag, Michael sought refuge in the first empty seat he found when boarding the train.
The child wore a grey tam, a knitted striped scarf; it sat across from Michael on the lap of its grey-coated mother, her seatmates a man absorbed with a newspaper story in the Times and a businesswoman talking on a cell phone. A handful of sullen teenagers clustered in the aisle, clinging to the rails and gazing at the Underground's walls visible through the glass.
Had he been writing a story about them, their faces would have proved a challenge, giving so little clues to the personal thoughts inside. His mind was drawn to Kate again, the quiet exterior which seemed to mask the internal conflicts. From lost parents to a life abroad in a place where she shared no connections to the seeming calm over Sean's choice of maid of honor for her wedding.
His eye glanced from the teenagers to the seats just beyond his own by the door. A man with a briefcase on his lap texted on his phone, a schoolgirl rummaged through her backpack, and Kate sat with legs crossed sedately as she read a novel.
The sight of her startled him, making him turn away inexplicably; a second later, he was aware that she noticed him also, the freezing in her pose observed by his peripheral vision.
They remained like this for several seconds, sneaking a glance while the other one seemed to be looking elsewhere. It was Michael who broke this chain by meeting her gaze directly, the end of the act of strangers on a train.
He cleared his throat. “I know we said we would pretend we’d never met before,” he said, “but I think by now we might pretend to be friends.” This received a smile from Kate, although she angled her face away from his own.
“I know,” she answered. “I suppose although we have separate errands–”
“We might combine forces,” he finished for her, “since we are going the same place, after all.”
“You are visiting a dress shop, I take it?” she asked. He saw a hint of sparkle in her eyes, as if something was kindled beneath the layers of blue.
“A suit shop,” he answered, taking a stab at what he hoped might be British terminology, something akin to “posh frocks” and “cummerbunds.” Kate merely smiled in response, gazing ahead through the glass as if seeing something more than the blurry speed of the Underground’s walls.
“My stop is the first one,” he said. He did not ask her which one was her own; nor if she would be willing to exit early. The answer was in the deliberate way she tucked the novel into her pocket.
He did not know the way to anything in London, but Kate seemed to possess a fair knowledge of the city. She must have come here often, he realized, in her university years; perhaps with weekends in pubs, crowded noisily with friends on the train at late hours.
He followed close as she walked, her thin frame disguised by a straight tan coat and the bulky rucksack slung from one shoulder. The dark curtain of her hair showed signs of having been unbraided hours earlier, a faint ripple like an old-fashioned curling iron’s waves.
Details like these preoccupied Michael in a way that no observations had in the past. He had watched countless strangers move through crowds, observed with interest people on benches outside the grocery or fellow passengers aboard transportation, but never with such fascination. When he realized he was doing it, he reproached himself; then slipped into it again the moment she readjusted the strap on her shoulder or glanced back to make sure he wasn’t lost in the crowd.
Glass windows displayed bridal dresses like a shower of tulle, as conventional as any American shop catering to formal events. He was tempted to wait outside, but she paused in the doorway as he held it open, a fraction of a second that ended his hesitation.
A salesperson emerged from a fitting room, surveying them with a smile.
“I have a dress reserved,” said Kate, as she approached the counter. “The name Ivey.” The woman checked a computer log as she listened, raising her face with a sympathetic smile.
“Miss Ivey,” she said. “Yes, we have your dress ready, but we were rather hoping you would change your mind about that lovely gown you tried on before–”
Kate blushed. “I rather think not,” she answered, as the persistent salesperson’s smile deepened.
“I can offer you a discount,” she hinted. “Twenty-five percent off the tag. It was such a fetching design for you...”
“Perhaps you should think about it,” said Michael, laughing. “Twenty-five percent is a good bargain.” He regretted the remark when he saw the brooding expression on Kate’s face as she contemplated the decision.
“Come on, now; at least try it on.” The saleswoman’s voice assumed a chirpier lilt as she plucked Kate’s sleeve. Michael bit his lip, hesitating to intervene. In an instant, he wished himself en route to the jewelry store, sh
uffling in line for the tuxedo rentals, anywhere but here watching Kate be dragged away to this dress.
There was a fluttery, rustling sound from the dressing room, a murmur of voices– the saleswoman, possibly a tailor, making sounds of amazement and encouragement. A moment later the curtain parted to release a seamstress wearing a wrist pincushion dotted like a porcupine. Through the gap in the fabric, Kate was visible atop a hidden stepstool, a stream of white fabric billowing around her.
A train of satin rose to a sequined bow in the back, the fitted bodice studded with silver beads and bugles; sleeves jutting out like wings from the shoulder, the accordion pleats softly tapering outwards from the low neckline. Kate’s hand smoothed the skirts flat against her as she gazed downwards, her hair tucked in a low knot on her neck with a pencil holding it in place.
The dress was hardly a style in which he would imagine Kate–neither classy, or couhteur, lacking the elegance of Audrey Hepburn or Jackie Kennedy-esque fashions which would suit her figure better. Yet, in this dress, at this moment, she was stunningly beautiful. A towering figure in shades of marble who seemed like a sculpture.
The seamstress moved in the direction of the dressing room again, this time with a garment box tucked under her arm. She disappeared inside, the curtain drawn again as the voice of the saleswoman piped up from inside.
Michael shifted his weight, forcing his glance in any direction other than the dressing room. Through the store windows, he could see a group of people chatting on the sidewalk, a passing figure in a vicar’s collar and overcoat carrying an umbrella. The sounds of human voices in the dressing room grew louder as Kate and the saleswoman emerged, the box from before in the seamstress’s arms.
“I think you’ll be pleased with the selection,” said the saleswoman, swiping Kate’s credit card. “A charming little dress if I do say so myself. And sensible for an outdoor ceremony.”
Kate signed the receipt without comment, claiming the box from the counter. As she exchanged polite farewells with the saleswoman, Michael moved to open the door for her.
“Let me take that,” he said, reaching for the box.
“It isn’t heavy,” she answered. “It’s not as if I purchased that tremendous affair of tulle, is it?” With a slight laugh as she shifted the garment box beneath her arm.
He wanted to argue that weight was not the point, but didn’t. Instead, he switched subjects. “I’m sorry about teasing you over the discount,” he said. “It wasn’t any of my business, really; I didn’t intend to encourage the salesperson to stuff you into a dress you didn’t want.” Awkwardly, he touched her elbow as he guided her across the street.
“It’s her job to persuade me,” answered Kate. “The bigger the sale, the greater the commission, as you know. There was nothing wrong with the dress, I suppose; perhaps under different, less hasty circumstances, I would have considered something more elegant.”
“So the one in the box is–” he began.
“–a rather conservative choice, I’m afraid,” she answered. “On all accounts.” Her fingers wrapped themselves around the string tying the box shut. No more words followed this statement.
He paused in mid-stride, causing Kate’s steps to slow as well. “I feel a little hungry,” he said. “Would you let me pay you back for that bowl of noodles with an actual meal?”
“That isn’t necessary,” she said.
“No, but I might insist anyway,” he answered, although he made no move to drag her in the direction of the nearest eatery. They were both quiet, yet tense with expectation; as if waiting for the other to make a move.
“That would be nice,” Kate answered.
Michael grinned. Hand still on her elbow, he guided her towards the door of a sandwich shop, pushing it open to make way for their entrance.
Across from her at the table, separated only by a bud vase and salt and pepper shakers, he found himself without the urge to avoid eye contact. For once, he met her gaze with something more like confidence, even if only inspired by the faintest resemblance between this place and the bakery in San Francisco.
“You shall have to tell me what to order and what to avoid,” he said. “I have no ins and outs of English cuisine.”
“What would you tell me to avoid in America?” asked Kate. “If I were a tourist there for the first time and not a resident, let us say.”
“I would say not to eat anything made with seafood at a diner,” he said. “And to avoid muffins in cafeterias.” This statement made her laugh as she glanced at her menu again.
“You have a really nice laugh,” he said. “You should use it more often.” His face reddened. “Not that I’m saying you’re sad–that didn’t come out the way I intended...” He ran a hand through his hair, looking away as the embarrassment consumed him.
“You have a very difficult time with words for a writer,” she answered. “One moment you are quite eloquent; the next, apologizing for every word.”
Even with the humor in her voice, he detected a slight note of pain. She folded her menu and gave him a soft smile.
“I haven’t always had a cheerful life,” she said. “There were some things which made me cautious later on. Less likely to laugh, I suppose.” Although her voice was still light, he could detect the note of discomfort beneath, the movement beneath the ice.
His own menu fell closed after a moment’s time, his fingers smoothing the creases in the laminated surface. “When did your parents pass away?” he asked. “Sean told me a little about it.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I was eight,” she answered. “It was an accident. A mechanical error in flight was the final verdict, which meant a small settlement. That’s what paid for my education.”
“But no childhood at Heathshedge, correct?” asked Michael.
Kate’s laugh was slightly bitter. “I grew up in schools,” she answered. “Heathshedge is a place where I spent Christmas and Easter holidays. There was no true ‘home’ in the traditional sense of the word once I was on my own. It was a void that never quite filled.”
She folded the napkin before her into a fan pleat, as if forming origami. “I don’t intend it harshly,” she said. “They love me in their own way. They were kind to me in their own way. Just not–”
“Just not as parents would have been,” said Michael. He looked out the window at the foot traffic passing by on the sidewalk.
“My mother,” he said, “was the last person in my family to die. A long diagnosis of cancer.” He coughed, his hand remaining near his chin as if supporting his face. “The month before she died, it was only me. Spoon-feeding three meals a day, sponge baths that avoided bed sores. Long nights when I could hear the sound of moans through the walls of her room.”
“No siblings,” said Kate.
“No siblings,” he answered. “No dad for fifteen years, either.”
Her lips parted as if to say something else, but the waitress approached their table, a coffee pot in one hand, a pad in the other.
“A bowl of chicken soup, please,” said Kate to the waitress, who made a note on her pad. Michael said nothing as he glanced at her, eyebrows arched expectantly.
“Not the pickle,” she said. “Ham and egg pie is good.”
“Ham and egg pie,” he said to the waitress. “With a cup of coffee, please.”
He could see Kate was right when it arrived. A slice of yellow that broke apart beneath his fork, melting in his mouth without the flavors of cheese or peppers that he would have expected from an American version. Kate crumbled a handful of oyster crackers into her soup, raising the spoon to her lips in the formal fashion of an evening dinner party.
“Was it awkward?” she asked. “For you to tell me about your mother?” She stirred the crackers into the bowl.
“Probably no more than for you to mention your childhood,” he said. “Your past was absent in most of the stories Sean told about you.”
“I told Sean so few, I’m surprised he remembered them,” she said. �
��In Mexico, we didn’t talk about our past. Only the bright future ahead. Careers and filmmaking, being artists and being in love. It was nothing so very concrete as this.”
“As concrete as marriage?” Michael laughed. “I would have thought–given that Sean proposed, there would have been some warning.”
“I knew he fancied me,” she answered. “I knew I liked him. By the end of the shoot, it felt more like love. When he asked me to come to Chicago, I knew it was to see me again. I came to see him as much as to see Trinity’s art show, I confess.”
Michael was quiet for a moment. “Did you go out of curiosity, then?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she answered. She lifted her cup of tea with both hands. Her mouth was concealed behind the brim; he could see neither a frown nor a smile in the depths of her eyes.
When the waitress brought the check, he drew his wallet and fished out a handful of pound notes from his currency exchange. Kate did not attempt to argue him over the check, something which gave him a sense of satisfaction.
He pocked the receipt as they left the restaurant, as if keeping it as a souvenir of this day. He strode alongside Kate as they made their way towards the jeweler’s, their hands a few inches apart in distance. He felt taller with her alongside him, as if Kate’s petite frame brushing his shoulder was a sign of strength.
The jeweler’s shop was empty when they entered. Michael fished the slip of paper from his pocket, a size and inscription scribbled in Sean’s handwriting. Cases of solid bands and bejeweled rings stretched before him in a museum of possibilities. He wondered which one was Sean’s choice; until now, it had never occurred to him that the ring was among the best man’s duties.
“This is for the Bealy order,” he said, approaching the counter. “I assume it will be ready for pickup before Saturday?” He slid the piece of paper across the counter. The clerk adjusted his glasses, then examined the slip.
“Wait here for one moment, please.” He stepped away, leaving Michael alone at the counter. Kate wandered past a jewelry case, pausing to admire something inside.
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