Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel

by Atkinson, Thea

  The slim-fit pin stripe pants she wore moved nicely when she did. They clung to her round bottom like seaweed to a rock. When she bent to retrieve cream from the office fridge she finally broke down and spoke.

  "I know exactly what you're thinking, Daniel. And I'm not going to do it."

  "What are you talking about? How would you know what I'm thinking?"

  She faced me. Fringes of red hair framed a nasty scowl. "I'm not sitting with Buffalo Belle. You do it. God knows you need something to do." She held her coffee cup with both hands.

  I reached for the mug with trepidation. "Why would I ask you to do that?" I took a couple of steps toward her, maintaining the smile that by now wanted to bare teeth at her.

  Gina patted me on the head. Then she whispered close to my ear."She's in your office."

  She fluttered her fingers at me as she left for her office.

  Some weird internal monster ate my smile alive. I trudged back to the main section, mumbling good mornings to the tellers. Gina, at the other end of the section, ready to pop into her office, stood laughing at me.

  "Have a lovely day, Gina," I called across the room.

  Her sing song voice came back. "You too, Danny boy."

  I wondered briefly if Belle Hastings planned to shriek in my ear until I finally gave in and gave back her service charges. Then I wondered if she would be clever enough to bring a member of the board with her. After that, I wondered if Belle could be charmed into leaving me alone. By then, I'd been standing outside my office for at least five minutes and I couldn't put it off any longer.

  I took a deep breath, bracing myself, then pushed the door open to my office. I squared my shoulders as I entered; making yourself bigger worked in the animal kingdom, and I needed every advantage I could get. She was a tiny little woman, with weathered blue hair, and since I was fairly tall, I wasn't a bit scared of her even if she was sitting behind my desk.

  I moved to shake her hand. She eyed my fingers as if I had leprosy.

  I pulled out a chair from next to my desk and sat in it, electing to let her think she was in the power position for now.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Hastings."

  "Give me back my 400 dollars."

  I shouldn't have been surprised that she'd stick the knife straight in.

  "But that won't solve the problem."

  She shifted in the chair; it made a great sigh as if it was glad to breathe, then groaned when it realised her weight only changed spots. "If you go through your paperwork, you'll realise that I made deposits the same day as the computer transferred funds. And since that is the case, it transferred for nothing."

  Gina had thoughtfully provided me with a folder. It crouched like an angry tiger on the corner of my desk. I flipped it open and stared down at the printout; I didn't need slips to see that in the first three cases, the deposits were made the day after the transfer.

  "Have you checked your statement, Mrs. Hastings?"

  She fired visual darts at me. "I'm no idiot. That's exactly why I want you to check those slips. You'll find that my deposits were made the day before you entered them into your cursed computer system. Someone made a mistake. And I want it rectified. And I want you to pay me back for the service charges, too."

  "Can I get you a cup of tea, water, perhaps?" Before she could shake her head or nod it, I was out of my chair like a melon from a catapult sailing over a medieval wall. In my case, the wall was Gina's office.

  "Do we have any tea bags?" I demanded of her.

  From behind the stack of file folders that sat on her desk, she nodded.

  "Milk?"

  Another nod.

  "Arsenic?"

  "Don't you mean sugar?"

  "No. I mean the little powdered white stuff that rids us of pests."

  Gina opened her desk drawer and stuck her hand inside.

  "Here, it's artificial sweetener packets; about as close to poison as I can give you."

  I thanked her profusely and headed straight out back to brew a cup of lethal tea.

  Buffalo Belle waved off the steaming liquid when I tried to pass it to her. Her face had gone as white as the sweetener powder and she trembled as she reached toward the paper. She pointed to the printout I'd left open on my desk.

  "That paper says most of my money has been transferred. My savings are almost gone."

  Cradling the china, I leaned over to look at the bottom figure. "Have you really spent most of your savings?"

  Suddenly I felt sick. She couldn't possibly have gone through that much money. I placed the tea on the desk.

  She stood to peer down at the paper with me. "Suddenly 400 dollars doesn't seem like much money--Not compared to what I've lost."

  Her voice was a mere squeak. Her tone of voice nudged something in the root of my belly. I glanced up. Her eyes watered. I decided to drink the tea myself.

  "Have you written any large amounts," I asked, picking up the saucer. She took it from me, obviously thinking I was being polite and would offer it.

  She collapsed into her chair. Hot tea spilled everywhere: on the floor, the upholstery, and all over her lap. I jumped to help, but she apparently felt nothing. Calmly, she pulled a tissue from the box on my desk and mopped up every drop she could see. I felt about as useful as Jesus' tomb.

  "I hadn't realised," she stammered. "It seems I should make arrangements to have money from Toronto transferred in."

  Some spot within me cringed for how pitiful she seemed that moment, then that other part, the larger, Daniel-needs-to-protect-his-balls part whooped a primeval victory cry. Thank the great good Lord, we wouldn't feel the need to emasculate the poor old bank manager today. No, sir, we've discovered we've already been screwed. Damn shame, old girl. Damn shame.

  Pasting what I hoped would be a discreet look on my face, I shuffled the papers and said, "Do you have an account somewhere in Toronto?"

  She nodded. "It's where most of my money is."

  "Well, if you really want some transferred, we can take care of the paperwork. Just go see one of the tellers; she can take care of it."

  Again, she nodded. "And my service charges?"

  I felt an overwhelming need to make her feel better, and it put my mouth into action before my brain could assess the damage.

  "I'll do the paperwork myself."

  And I would. Just as soon as I could get Gina to start on it.

  The day might as well have been a dog dragging its butt across expensive carpeting. I thought it would never end. Gina had taken care of Buffalo Belle in a most efficient fashion and within hours, about five thousand dollars was added to our assets. Not that five thousand was a big deal, but it should take care of Mrs. Hastings for at least a month and I could be left alone about transfers.

  Around 4:30 I decided I'd had enough of banking and, from the privacy of my office, logged on to Hannah's site. I could bypass entering my credit card number again by entering my username and password. Within seconds I was granted a moving, and seemingly real time image of Hannah and her canvas.

  This time the camera angle lent not only perfect view of Hannah and her painting, but of the immediate area. She stood in front of the easel between a tall wooden stool where she dropped her palette from time to time, and a narrow table that held various tin cans full of paint brushes, knives, and weird stuff that I can only imagine she picked up from the city sidewalks.

  I had a good view of her perfect ass. She leaned over from time to time, which of course, set my mind to racing. But what intrigued me the most was just the act of watching her do ordinary things. Oh, sure it was appealing to watch the painting come to life, but what fascinated me -- what actually piqued my curiosity -- were those things that she did when she walked away from the camera.

  Watching her paint while she was naked, although on the surface seemed extremely intimate, was more like a teaser for those things that she did while she was away from the camera. I found myself wondering what she did in those moments. How she brushed her teeth,
what she looked like when she combed her hair. I wanted more than anything to get a glimpse into that personal part of Hannah, that part that she obviously believed more holy than her naked body. It was almost as if she took off her vulnerability with her clothes. I could almost believe as I watched her swish a brush in a tin can, that the nudity was for more than mere exposure. I began to believe it was a diversion.

  She stepped away from the camera again. But rather than leaving a void, her absence created anticipation. What was she doing? Where had she gone? My imagination began running in all sorts of directions. When she came back sipping at a pottery mug, I realized she had gone for a cup of tea. I knew it would be tea. It had to be tea. She put it on the narrow table next to the tin can that, I knew from my last log on, held cleaner.

  Hannah then began to swipe her arm across the entire canvas. She backed away. Cocking her head, she absently wiped her forearm against her hip. Gray and green mixed into one dark mess. She grabbed a wide, thick brush and dabbed it into a spot of paint on her palette. Then she swirled it into another spot of paint. She tested the color on the canvas. Unsatisfied, Hannah swirled her brush into the second spot of paint again and retested. I was getting bored. Just as I was about to close the window, she reached for the tin can. Still staring at the painting, she raised the can to her lips.

  I wanted to holler at her not to drink it; silly woman, that wasn't her tea.

  When I thought she would take a drink, she shook her head in disbelief and put the can back on the table. I closed the browser when she reached for her mug. It all seemed so very live.

  But I knew the image couldn't be real time. At first visit, I'd been surprised to see her painting away as if she were really back in Toronto, but I quickly realised that she must have archived an earlier version of the video.

  I doubted anyone would be paying attention to the painting; she was clever enough to understand that. It gave her the option of leaving Toronto without losing income. But the question remained: why did she leave?

  Always the subtle gentleman, I looked up the hotel's phone number and asked for her room. It rang twice before she answered.

  "Hannah?"

  "Yes." Tense sounding. Hesitant.

  The silence seemed as long as the wire that connected us. Afraid she'd hang up, I quickly blurted out something much more suave than the comment from before. "Don't hang up. It's me."

  Her voice came in a near whisper. "Daniel?" Her query was a broken sounding one, like a vinyl record with a warp.

  "Say more than that," she said. "Tell me something about the beach."

  "The beach is beautiful."

  She hissed at me. "More."

  "It's a great place to get sick."

  I heard her relief, but I had no idea why she sounded so relieved. "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "Can I meet you for supper?"

  Bulls eye. And I didn't even have to aim.

  I found Hannah sitting completely naked on the immaculate sofa in the hotel lobby. Thick and curling blonde hair teased a nicely erect pink nipple, matching hued hair curled around her crotch. I swallowed hard, remembering the head she had given me in the bathroom of the pub and it took several seconds for me to realize that I was only imagining her the way I wanted her to be. I'd been watching so much of her videos online that I had to shake my head to rid my mind of the image it wanted to see. She wasn't nude at all. Just sitting contemplative on the sofa, staring off into the space around me as though she didn't see me there at all. I jammed stubby fingers into my jeans pockets.

  Hannah actually wore a kerchief around her hair, tied up in front like the pancake box lady. She looked like she had been sitting for a long time. She pulled her fingers through a lock of errant hair that had either come loose on its own or that she pulled from the kerchief. I winced as I watched her tear to shreds her bottom lip.

  I took a few steps toward her, trying to make a show of my presence so I wouldn't scare her.

  "I made it."

  She started, then quickly regained composure. "I'm glad." She stood, pulling at the knot. "I hope you're hungry."

  Hungry? She had no idea.

  "You have no idea," I joked. "I'm more hungry than I've been in months."

  We strolled down the ramp built for those patrons who couldn't manage the three steps to the lower level, I scuffing my toes against the carpet, and she delicately avoiding the hole that had been worn into the edge as we reached the bottom. Despite the well-known tastiness of the hotel's food, the restaurant was nearly empty. She immediately went to the corner table and took the chair at the back.

  "Your paperwork was approved today." I sat and watched her, figuring she'd move out of the fog with the news.

  Hannah's round face did light up. She actually looked relieved and for some reason that made the knot in my own stomach untie.

  "Great," she said. "I really need that money." She threw open the cloth napkin and laid it across her jean-clad lap.

  "It helped that you had the assets in Toronto to back up the loan."

  Again, I watched her. She was giving off weird vibes. I began to wonder what the hell was going on. I began to think it had something to do with her needing the loan. I'd grown incredibly suspicious since the days I come into my fortune. Too many women had given me far too much sex in the hopes of receiving nice long vacations or jewelry or whatever the hell else women wanted and then promptly left me once they realized I was okay with the sex, but not so much with the whoring for it. I'd almost been sick when I thought she might be playing me, and was even sicker when I realized I was relieved that she had the assets to cover the loan.

  Even so, history had made me very wary.

  "Why would you need a loan if you already have loads of money?"

  She rewarded my subtlety with a stabbing look. "Can we at least order first? I've had a rough day."

  The gentleman in me rose to the occasion. "You've had a hard day? Mine was pure hell."

  She chose to say nothing in favour of hiding behind her menu. The waitress came and went; water was poured into our dishwasher-stained glasses before she came up for air.

  "I'll tell you everything, Daniel. Believe it or not, for some weird reason, I trust you. Then again, maybe I'm just desperate. But let me tell you in my own time. I have to breathe."

  I yanked off a bit of crust from the roll on my plate. "It's not as if I'm trying to smother you."

  "I know. I know."

  "So tell me."

  "It all has to do with my painting. I see things, I have to recreate them---although, its not really recreating. It's more exploration. But anyway, it's quite a demanding passion. I could be standing in a grocery line, and all of a sudden, the light washing over a grocery clerk brings to life shadows in her cheek. I'm transfixed."

  I knew the feeling. While I might not have the poetic soul she did, I totally understood that sense of being frozen by beauty. I wanted to reach beneath the table and stick my hand between her legs. Instead, I forced my fingers curl around the water glass.

  "I get stuck sometimes," she said. "There I am in the grocery line and the person behind starts pushing me forward and I've lost track of how long I'd been standing there." Hannah paused long enough to butter her roll before she continued.

  "Most artists are interested in light. Light is their life force. Their grammar, their Madonna. Do you have any idea how harsh full light can be? It sharpens angles, washes out colour. It's not flattering."

  "Like Moses," I said.

  "What's that?"

  "Moses. When he was on Mount Sinai and God had allowed himself to be seen as he passed by."

  She furrowed her pretty brows. "I'm not familiar."

  I leaned back in my seat, pleased to know something she didn't.

  "The light was so strong that Moses glowed when he came down. Nobody could stand looking at him and he had to wear a veil."

  "Interesting," she said but her tone suggested otherwise. I realized she was preoccupied.

 
; "I'd rather study shadows," she said. "It's the shadows that make light its most stunning."

  I couldn't help smiling. "That explains your interest in me."

  She grinned, too. It was good to see. "Yes, that explains you." She stretched her hand across the table and cupped mine. "Actually, it explains a lot."

  Then I did reach beneath the table, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to slip my fingers between her legs. Instead it landed on her knee and squeezed. She gave me a trembling smile that gave me enough courage to lean across and kiss her on the corner of the mouth.

  Someone in the room ordered coffee. The aroma settled around our table and cocooned us. It smelled fabulous. I decided to order a cup, not to drink, really, just to wrap my hands around.

  "None of that explains why you look so spooked."

  She cocked her head sideways as though she thought I hadn't been listening at all.

  "My love of shadows has everything to do with it Shadows are kind of like the other side of the psyche, don't you think? You can hide in a shadow, and things can be hidden from you."

  "That's pretty cliche'," I heard myself saying and expected a frown to appear on her face.

  "Good point," she said. "I guess that's what I'm exploring in my art. My paintings all have shadows as the subject." Hannah slurped at the edge of her spoon, oblivious to what I might think of her manners. Strangely, I kind of liked it.

  "So you like shadows." I ran my thumb along the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. "Doesn't sound so frightening."

  She carefully extracted her hand from mine and tasty Palm on the table, splaying fingers.

  "I have a series of paintings I called the shadow series." She lifted each finger off the surface of the table as though she were counting. "The first one is a forest scene. Each tree trunk is made up of faces or pieces of faces staring out from the shadows created by dappled light. I rather liked it, but in some ways, it turned out to be a disaster."

  "I know exactly what disaster means," I actually could sympathise with her there. I felt a bond attach itself to us across the chowder bowls. It made me smile.