For a second she shivered at the thought he knew about her nightmares, but he must’ve been talking about himself. “Yes?”
She riffled through the pages on the table, curious to see what he was studying, but it was a pile of sheet music not study material. His band’s stuff, then. But the lyrics sang about mice hiding in shoes.
“What’s this?” she asked, perplexed.
When she turned to look at him, still standing by the counter, she caught the shock on his face. He sprang into action, lunging after the sheets of paper. She managed to hang onto one. Avoiding his flailing hands and wild eyes, she peeked at it again. It looked like a children’s song.
“You write kiddie tunes to make money?” she asked, her voice brimming with laughter.
“No!”
His face was beet red to the points of his ears. His eyes swam with embarrassment or maybe it was the shoddy lighting. She felt evil for torturing him, but it was a heady aphrodisiac.
“The big bad rock singer writes kid’s stuff,” she taunted.
“I didn’t write that,” he said, still trying to grab the paper out of her hand, but unless he tackled her to the ground, he couldn’t reach it.
“Like I believe you.”
“It’s true. I just have to sing it,” he said, and let his arms fall to his sides, defeated. “It’s for a cartoon and the only way for me to earn money for the rent.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’m so broke I’m forced to sing cartoon jingles. Laugh, go ahead!”
“Oh,” she said with a smile. “It’s sweet.”
“It’s stupid, that’s what it is. Bloody awkward.”
“It’s not that bad. Besides, you’re only embarrassed because, secretly, you enjoy doing it.”
His face said it all, turning scarlet.
He was cute and the fact that he wasn’t aware of it made him cuter.
“Years from now, you’ll be able to tell a woman that you recorded cartoon jingles, and she’ll fall instantly in love with you. You know how women are about men and children.” She rolled her eyes although her derision was fake.
“It’s not working any magic on you, is it?”
“Nope.” God, yes.
She handed him the sheet music, disappointed the excitement was over, and he folded it, pushing it into his back pocket.
“So what exactly are you looking for in a guy?”
The longing in the pauses between his words made her answer truthfully. “It’s not about what I’m looking for, it’s about what I’ll get. In ten years’ time, I’ll be married to an arrogant bastard who will ignore me and whore around until I’ll have had enough and I’ll end it. I’m just not certain I’ll put the gun to my head.”
“Come on, he can’t be that bad.” He meant her father, of course, because that was who she had described. She’d once read daughters usually chose partners who resembled their fathers. She was more and more convinced it was true.
Maman had committed suicide when Anaïs was thirteen, after her father’s several public affairs, including with Maman’s best friend. Anaïs had witnessed him slapping her on several occasions, not to mention the degrading comments and mistreatment. At fourteen, Anaïs’s first lover broke two of her ribs when he kicked her. The same night, his minivan went up in flames.
Ever since, Anaïs had never stayed long enough with a guy to experience the morning after.
“You don’t know him.”
“I’m nothing like him,” Damon said, gently.
She could have admitted “no, you’re not” or she could lean her head on his chest and hug his waist, she could kiss him and enjoy it with every cell of her body, and there might have been a chance for a better future for her. But she didn’t. She didn’t even let herself ponder it.
“But I am,” she said.
He turned away and busied himself with putting the dish towels into a drawer. She felt sorry, but not sorry enough.
“Damon?”
“Just a sec.”
“So, tell me what happened this morning.” She changed the topic to let him breathe. Still, two long minutes passed before he came toward her. He gestured to the couch without looking at her.
She joined him on the ratty sofa. The tartan coverlet had been reworked into lace by moths. She sat on a pillow because it was less scratchy on her skin.
“So?”
He concentrated on his coffee, turning the mug this way and that, watching its contents as if divining from coffee grounds.
“I had to go fetch a package from the post office for the lab because it mistakenly wasn’t delivered. I stopped for a sandwich and a pack of cigs, and then I was going up the street when I had this feeling someone was following me. It was...odd.”
“And?”
“And then this guy suddenly walks up to me, taps my shoulder, all friendly-like. He says, ‘Hey, Damon, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Anaïs, would you?’”
“Har har, very funny.”
“It’s true.”
“Can’t be.”
“He seemed creepy, if you ask me, but we obviously don’t have the same taste in men,” Damon said.
He leaned back and stared at her with unreadable eyes.
“He said “We have some business to settle, she and I.’ Didn’t seem a very pleasant bloke.”
Anaïs’s mind whirred through her memories of the unpleasant men she’d had dealings with. The most recent was the most probable.
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you notice anything particular about him?” She fired questions at him like in a hearing.
“I didn’t notice anything else. I’m not used to being accosted by my friend’s exes.”
“It’s not my fault he came after you. How did he know you knew me? I don’t...” None of it made sense. Why would anyone approach Damon when very few people knew they were friends at all?
“He said he’d asked around if anyone knew where to find you and someone pointed me out. I’m guessing he was on campus.”
“Fucking hell. Who is this guy? What does he want with me?” A shiver ran down her spine as she leaned into the couch. She had a feeling trouble was coming. All she could think of was her married lover, Jason, whom she still saw occasionally. But why would he follow Damon when he had her phone number? He fit the bill in that he was a chauvinistic ass who kept a love nest to entertain his women-on-the-side while his wife raised their two sons. Did his decision to run for office make him realize she was a threat to his image and was trying to get rid of her? But still, why through Damon?
“What did he look like?”
Damon spread his hands. “I don’t know. Tall. Ish. Dark hair, stubble. He looked a bit intense, if you ask me.”
It was a general enough description for Jason to fit. But so could thousands of other Londoners.
“Why can’t my men troubles ever stop?” she said, realizing a second too late she should have kept that thought to herself.
But he just smiled softly. “You can turn any man’s knees to jelly and draw us in like flies.”
A small smile touched her lips. “You’re sweet, Damon. I’m sorry I’m not... you know.”
“’S fine. I’ll live.” He sounded happier than he looked.
She wanted to make it better for him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. What good it would do giving in to his charms when nothing good could come out of it? Eventually, their relationship would end. They’d get hurt and they would have nothing to show for it. There was no point to relationships.
With the bad dreams and the mysterious pursuer on the loose, she didn’t need much convincing to stay the night at his apartment. He changed the sheets for her, and slept on the couch where his feet hung off the side and his body sank into it like into a tub. Instead of thanking him in the morning, she scampered off before he woke up.
***
Once back in her tiny studio overlooking the Thames, she tried calling Jason but couldn�
��t reach him. Without answers from him, she needed to think, but her thoughts kept spinning in a circle.
It was late afternoon when Jason finally returned her calls.
“You called?” he said, as a way of greeting.
“Only because you were looking for me.”
“I was?”
“Don’t play dumb, Jay.”
“I’m not...Oh, wait, I see. Is this your new tactic? Is this how you flirt now?”
“What? No–”
“Look, Anna, I know I haven’t been in touch lately. I enjoyed our time together, I did. It’s just that I don’t have time right now. You know, with the campaign and all.”
What was he playing at? Why was he being coy about following Damon? He could just tell her it was over.
“But you asked Damon where you could find me. Did you lose my number?”
“Who’s Damon?”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” This cat-and-mouse game irritated her.
“Look, girl, I don’t know what you’re going on about, but I don’t have time for this. Besides, I think our thing has run its course. Alright?”
He couldn’t even pronounce her name so he called her Anna. And she hated it when he called her girl, all generic, as though she was one of many. She didn’t for one second imagine she was the only one, but it lacked respect, that word. And she deserved respect.
“I get it, Jay. We’re over. I’ve no problem with that. But I don’t like you following my friends.”
“Are you mad? For the hundredth time, I didn’t, don’t and won’t follow any friends of yours. I don’t even know them.”
“Who was it, then, if not you?” True, her voice could’ve sounded less aggressive, but his behavior incensed her because she could just see him turning up his nose like she was dog shit that he’d stepped in.
“I don’t give a flying fuck, you crazy bitch. Don’t call me again, you hear?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t want to hear your voice or see your face again, understood?”
“You’re such an arsehole, Jason. Don’t worry, I won’t be bothering you. I feel sorry for your wife.” She slammed the receiver down, hoping the noise carried through to him.
After half an hour and a glass of wine, she went out to get groceries. Dusk had fallen on the city and smog created a lid over the roofs. Her wool coat smelled of exhaust and mist as she entered the shop and picked up a basket. Mr. Desai, the owner, nodded in greeting. Her solitude had coagulated her communication muscles and it was a challenge smiling in response.
“Anything else, Miss?” Mr. Desai asked, and on impulse she asked for a pack of Gauloises. She hadn’t smoked in ages, but she’d need a cig right about now.
Getting out of the lift in her building, she heard her landline ring. As always when one hurried, the key just wouldn’t go into the lock. She finally turned it, pushed the door open and lunged for the phone, thinking it might be Damon.
“Hello?”
No one replied.
“Hello? Merde.” She was a second too late.
She’ll have to call him back because she needed to hear his voice. Lately, she often found herself wanting to share a piece of news or a thought with him. She’d gotten used to having him around. After coming to London, the huge city made her feel irrelevant all of a sudden. She was no one here. Except for Damon; to him, she was everything.
When he didn’t answer his phone and his voice mail was turned off, she wandered around her studio, biting her nails and smoking. Her restless fingers dialed Damon’s number again of their own accord. He was probably in the lecture halls somewhere or in the lab. Did he think of her?
“Where did that come from?” she said.
Silence swallowed her shocked words.
She threw on her coat, wrapped a shawl around her neck, and closed the door behind her. The light bulb in the foyer was burnt out, but the light from the street lit up the checkered tiles and the path to the front door.
She wanted to go down to the Thames. She’d always loved the water. She didn’t often walk around London, but she had a good sense of direction and usually had no trouble finding her way. But she didn’t count on so many gates and barred passageways. When the water’s edge was in her sight, she had to turn around because she couldn’t climb the gate at the end of the narrow street to get to the riverbank. London had turned Gothic with the spiked fences, the narrow cul-de-sacs, the flagstones slippery from the mist, and the streetlights shining unsurely through the milky air.
She turned back and strolled through the underpass. A cyclist passed her, and she heard the heavy steps of someone behind her, other noises were distant and blurred.
She veered left into an alley, and then turned right. Another gate sprung up in front of her.
“Mais, non!”
She retraced her steps, and the heavy footfalls started up again behind her. Dread rose up in her like the mist from the water. Rather than seeking a way to the river, she aimed for a more populated spot now that fear nipped at her heels. Soon, she could see a busy shopping street in front, but there was road construction between her and her goal.
The steps behind her sounded closer and closer. She couldn’t turn back, and she couldn’t go forward either. She ducked through an open gate into a shadowy courtyard. A tree danced in the breeze, throwing a distorted shadow onto the gravel. The night was full of noises but none of the sounds seemed ominous.
She fumbled with her phone and pressed the wrong number the first time. Her father’s secretary answered and Anaïs excused herself quickly.
“Damon?” She almost cried when he picked up on the second ring of the second call.
“Are you okay?”
The worry in his voice felt as palpable as if he were holding her hand, and her heart skipped a beat.
“I’m lost.”
“Where?”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? I don’t know where,” she hissed. She didn’t dare speak too loudly.
Despite her rude tone, his remained soft and kind. “You know the area, at least?”
She felt guilty for being a bitch and grateful that it didn’t make him change his mind about her.
“I’m down by the Thames. I didn’t go far from my flat, but I’m barred from every direction...” As she looked up, she caught a landmark she’d forgotten about earlier. She turned and looked around once again. It was as though she fired up a triangulation process in her brain, and the next moment she knew where she was and where to go.
“Anaïs?”
“It’s fine. I know where I am. I was being stupid.”
“I’m happy to hear it. Not the stupid part, the know-where-you-are part. When will I see you?”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“That’d be great.” There was a pause, before he added, “Will you be okay?”
“Yes.”
She pushed the phone in her coat pocket, her thumb poised on the call button, and the emergency number typed on the display.
When she peeked through the gate, the alley didn’t seem as scary now that she knew in which direction to run if she had to. The buildings looked brighter in the soft mist. When she stepped through the gate, she felt like in a Sherlock Holmes movie. She wouldn’t be surprised to see Dr. Watson walk around the corner with his walking cane. Instead, a very twenty-first century silhouette appeared, garbed in a leather jacket and dark trousers.
Instinctively, she pressed against the wall.
He had a phone pressed to his ear, and the person at the other end chatted animatedly. There was resignation in the man’s silence and his mechanical nodding. He wasn’t her pursuer.
She walked out of the maze, still on the look-out for any lurkers. She returned home shaken and cold.
***
“How’s the cartoon recording going?” she asked.
She had brought the pasta and sauce with her and had him cook dinner for the both of them. At least this way, she was sure he ate. On the
days they didn’t see each other, he probably subsisted on sandwiches, if that.
“It’s done.”
“You make it sound like you had pneumonia and now you’re back to health.”
“Pneumonia is less embarrassing,” he said, without looking up.
“STD, then.”
“I’m flat broke, I’m holed up in the lab twelve hours a day, and I record kiddie jingles. I don’t have sex.”
“Aw.” She pouted, with mirth in her eyes, but he didn’t catch on.
“You think it’s funny? Try being me for a week.”
“It’s not that bad.”
When he didn’t answer, she wasn’t sure anymore. “Is it?”
The fork made a noise when he dropped it in his plate. “Don’t you think I know why you said I won’t pick the right type of pasta and that you should bring it instead? Or why last week, you claimed you stained my shirt and took it to your place to wash it?”
She avoided his eyes. Teasing him about his crush on her was one thing, drawing attention to his poverty was quite another. His ego was crushed with the knowledge of how dirt poor he was, and it troubled her. But he wouldn’t let her do anything about it.
“I don’t have the money for the launderette. Bugger.” His head hanging low, he refused to look at her.
“Damon...”
He stood up, pushing his chair back so it screeched on the floor. His torn jeans were not a fashion choice.
“No, scratch that. I don’t have money for anything.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, I could catch an STD,” he said, sighing and taking the plates to the sink. “I ran out of coffee. Beer is all that’s left.”
“Beer’s fine,” she said.
She was starting to get used to the disorder, the stacks of books and papers lying around the couch on the floor. The mess of clothes on the bed and the broken bedside lamp. The remnants of the two runaway roommates. “Feels a bit post-apocalyptic, this,” she smiled, lounging on the couch.
“All we need is for the lights to go out.”
“I like candle-light. Makes my skin look golden.”
He chuckled, and then a wistful gaze turned his blue eyes darker. He started as if he was about to say something but then changed his mind. A series of expressions flitted across his face like the shadows clouds cast on the ground as they passed in the sky above. He said quietly, “I’ve always thought you were perfect, Anaïs.”
Valentine Kisses: A Kiss to Last a Lifetime Page 8
