More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  And that’s the full extent of our conversation on our way to lunch – but then, we’re not going at a pace that invites casual chat. Besides, I’ve got used to Rudy’s silences now, and don’t find them nearly as uncomfortable as I used to.

  We hit the café at peak lunch hour, but while Rudy orders at the counter I manage to grab a table. It’s squashed between a large communal table and a display of boxes of amaretto biscuits, which wobbles ominously as I edge my way into my seat. There’s barely enough room for one person to sit here, let alone two, and when Rudy returns with our sandwiches he stops in front of our midget table with a look that says: and where am I supposed to go?

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bit cosy,’ I say. ‘Perhaps you should sit on my lap?’

  I mean obviously, I’m joking – look at my face! See my wry smile! – but Rudy frowns.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll take the chair,’ he says, sliding carefully into place.

  Honestly, at times I do still wonder if he might not be entirely human; he gets this ‘does not compute’ expression which is pretty much one hundred per cent cyborg.

  Still, at least my parma ham and mozzarella sandwich looks good.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ I say, struggling to eat without shoving an elbow in Rudy’s face or destroying the leaning tower of biscuits. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can expense it. Karl’s asked me to have a chat with you – apparently I’m meant to be your Curtis Kinderbey mentor. He wants me to check you’re being adequately indoctrinated.’

  He says all this with a slight grimace that suggests it’s all a massive inconvenience. So getting lunch together wasn’t Rudy’s idea, after all? I feel a pang of disappointment. Silly as it sounds, I quite liked the fact that out of everyone in the office, Rudy seemed to have singled me out for friendship.

  ‘Ah, right,’ I mumble. ‘I see.’

  Rudy continues to stare at me. ‘So – are you?’

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Being adequately indoctrinated?’

  I scrutinise his expression; as ever, it’s impossible to tell whether he’s being serious.

  ‘Do you, for instance,’ he goes on, ‘have any idea what Curtis Kinderbey’s turnover was last year?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Do you know who Curtis – or indeed Kinderbey – is or was?’

  I just gawp at him. Am I really meant to be able to answer that?

  ‘Can you name Karl’s favourite flavour protein shake?’

  ‘Cookies and Cream!’ I reply at once.

  ‘Well done, passed with flying colours. I’ll report back to Karl.’ And then he breaks into a grin that makes his mismatched eyes shine, and I finally feel I’m back on firmer ground.

  We eat for a little while in silence, the noise and bustle of the café padding the gap in our conversation, and I’m over halfway through my sandwich when Rudy abruptly announces: ‘So I have news. I’ve got an audition.’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s fantastic, congratulations! What’s it for?’

  ‘A musical.’

  I get a mental image of Rudy flailing about in tap shoes doing jazz hands.

  ‘I’m actually not a bad singer,’ he adds a little defensively, as if reading my mind.

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re brilliant,’ I say quickly. ‘So what’s the musical? This is so exciting . . .’

  ‘It’s called A Star is Born.’

  ‘No way! As in the Streisand film?’

  He nods. ‘That’s the one. I’m a huge Barbra fan.’

  ‘Me too! In fact, at one time I was obsessed. I used to dress the same as her – my work friends even called me Barb.’

  ‘Yeah, now you mention it, I can definitely see the similarity,’ says Rudy, nodding, and my hand flies to my face in embarrassment.

  ‘It’s the nose, isn’t it? Except Barbra makes a great big conk look a million times better than I ever could.’

  As I say this, it occurs to me that my nose has been particularly bothering me lately. I once read that your nose and ears are the only parts of you that never stop growing, which is why you see those old men who look like the BFG; perhaps mine is actually getting bigger? I’ve found myself comparing it with other people’s noses when I’m on the bus or tube, and it’s rare I’ll see one as enormous as mine, certainly on a girl. I used to be proud of my nose, but that was when I worked in fashion where uniqueness is prized above all else (which is why you get some truly bonkers-looking models). The real world, however, is far happier if you blend in – and that’s tricky when you have the nasal equivalent of a flashing neon sign in the middle of your face.

  Rudy, who has been openly scrutinising my features, asks: ‘Don’t you like your big nose?’

  I can’t help but laugh. Other people would be all, ooh, it’s not that big, but Rudy is honest to the point of bluntness – and it’s actually refreshing. I start to mutter something about how my nose and I have had a chequered history, but then, inspired by Rudy’s direct manner, I start again.

  ‘No, I don’t like it. I used to, because I appreciated that it was different, but now it makes me feel . . . not pretty.’ I shrug. ‘I’d really prefer if it was less noticeable.’

  Rudy smiles. ‘You should be lucky to have such a large nose,’ he declares, his voice rich and sonorous, as if he’s reciting a Shakespeare sonnet. ‘It acts as a rudder, and will steer you through the life’s troubled waters.’

  Wow, where did that come from? It’s like he switched to actor mode; I get a glimpse of how incredible he’d be on stage.

  Rudy is clearly pleased at the effect his speech has had. ‘It’s a quote from one of my favourite novels,’ he explains. ‘Jitterbug Perfume. You should read it.’

  ‘Why, good PR for the gigantic-nosed, is it?’

  Rudy considers me for a while longer, and I feel myself shrinking from his penetrating gaze. Embarrassed, I turn my attention to what’s left of my sandwich. After a moment he says: ‘Why are you so down on yourself, Annie?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, I am not!’

  His voice is gentle. ‘I’m not criticising you. I just think it’s a shame that you’re not kinder to yourself. You have so much to be proud of.’

  I feel my insides tensing. To my horror, I feel like I’m going to cry. ‘You barely know me.’

  ‘You’re right, but from what you have told me, you’ve had a lot to deal with in your life – things that any of us would struggle with. Having a smaller nose won’t change that, though.’

  I stare fiercely at my hands, at a loss how to reply. This is all too close to the bone. I admit that I have occasionally wondered whether Luke would have cheated on me if I had a cute little button nose like Sigrid. The truth is I probably am in desperate need of a rudder to steer me through the troubled waters of life: most of the time I feel completely out of control, careering from one crisis to the next, while everyone else seems to glide serenely along. The only time I feel remotely good about myself these days is when somebody likes one of my Instagram photos: that’s how flimsy my self-esteem is right now. I swallow down the lump that’s suddenly appeared in my throat; this really isn’t a conversation I want to be having with Rudy.

  ‘Thank you for the pep talk,’ I manage, plastering on a shaky smile. ‘You’re very wise, Rudy. What’s that expression . . . ? Old beyond your years.’

  He considers this for a moment. ‘I guess I’ve just always preferred hanging out with older people. My other half jokes I should be called Grandad. At least, I think it’s a joke . . .’

  For such an innocent, throwaway comment, this hits me like a truck; I think my jaw might literally drop. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Rudy might be dating someone – probably because it’s such a normal, human thing to do, which is totally at odds with his whole ‘vampire robot from Mars’ vibe. I’m desperate to ask more about this mysterious ‘other half’, but Rudy’s already putting on his coat.

  ‘We better get back to the office,’ he says. ‘I’
ve got a viewing in half an hour.’

  I nod and start to gather up my things, but as I get up to follow him out, he pauses and turns to look at me again.

  ‘For what it’s worth, Annie, I like your nose,’ he says. ‘It holds your face together.’

  Then he sets off towards the door, and as I follow him out of the café, weaving through the closely packed tables, I find myself wondering why, whenever I speak to Rudy, I always end up baring my soul to him. He has this uncanny knack for cutting through all the social niceties and getting right to the heart of who I am and how I feel, while giving away next to nothing about himself. It’s really quite unnerving.

  23

  As I walk into the kitchen, Jess gives an ear-piercing wolf-whistle of the type you hear from particularly non-woke scaffolders. It’s so loud that Dot, who’s in my arms drinking her breakfast bottle, jumps and immediately starts to howl.

  ‘Wow, Mama looks hot this morning,’ marvels Jess, ignoring the wailing. ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘I’m just going to work.’

  ‘Are those new jeans? They make your bum look awesome.’

  ‘Yeah, well, as you kept telling me, it was about time I replaced my maternity ones.’

  ‘And . . . are you wearing eyeliner?’ She peers at me more closely. ‘Yes, you’ve got your Barb flicks back on. Very nice.’

  ‘I just thought I’d try something a bit different.’ It actually took me five attempts to get the lines to match, which came as a shock because not so long ago I could apply perfect eyeliner in a dark club while pissed.

  Jess eyes me with suspicion. ‘It seems to me you’re making an awful lot of effort for 8 a.m., Miss Taylor.’

  ‘I could say the same about you,’ I reply, taking in her marabou-trimmed robe, artfully messy bun and three different shades of eyeshadow.

  ‘Me? I got out of bed like this,’ she says with a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Have you got time for a coffee before you leave?’

  I settle Dot in her bouncy chair, where she resumes her bottle while fixing Jess with a baby death-stare, and perch on a stool at the island. A fruit bowl sits in the middle of the counter, except rather than apples and bananas, it holds Jess’ five-a-day of colourful foil-wrapped condoms.

  ‘So come on, hon, what’s with all the pre-breakfast sexiness?’ Jess pauses in the middle of spooning coffee into the cafetière. ‘Ooh, have you got an appointment with your fuckable dentist?’

  ‘No! I told you, I’m going to work.’

  And I am going to work. That is the absolute truth. I’d just rather not tell Jess where I’m going to work – and luckily I don’t have to, because at that moment a penis walks into the kitchen.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ it says to Jess. ‘Where’s that coffee you promised . . . oh fuck, you’ve got a baby!’

  The penis – or rather, the heavily muscled man attached to it – recoils, girlishly horrified, at the sight of Dot in her bouncer. I rush to cover my daughter’s eyes so she’s not scarred for life and Jess howls with glee.

  ‘She’s not mine, silly! This is my adorable housemate, Dottie, and her marginally less adorable mum, Annie.’

  ‘Oh right. Phew.’ The penis’ owner gives a grunt of a chuckle. ‘Hi, I’m Joe,’ he says, sticking out his hand to me, which I shake with just the tips of my fingers because I really don’t want to know where it’s been. Nobody (apart from me) seems remotely fazed by the fact that he’s starkers.

  ‘I’ll bring the coffee up in a sec,’ says Jess. ‘You go up and keep the bed warm, okay, babe?’

  Joe grunts a farewell, turns and leaves. You can tell he’s flexing his arse as he saunters out: he clenches with every step. It’s hypnotic.

  ‘That was Joe.’ Jess grins, once he’s safely contained upstairs. ‘Quite something, isn’t he? We met in the gym.’

  ‘Yes, he’s obviously very, um, body confident,’ I offer, struggling to come up with something polite to say about him that doesn’t involve his nether regions.

  ‘And with good reason, wouldn’t you say?’ Jess smirks. (Honestly, it’s like she’s reading from a particularly clichéd sitcom script.) ‘Anyway, I think I’m going to be working from home today. And I’ll probably be working quite hard – just to give you a heads-up if you and Dot plan on getting back early.’

  ‘Thank you very much for the warning.’

  Jess pours me a coffee, and I can tell she’s checking out my make-up again. ‘Come on, spill the beans, Annie. Since having Dot you’ve been so low-maintenance you’ve almost gone full cavewoman. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled you’ve decided to rejoin civilised womanhood, and I’ll happily get Mara back again to give you a once-over, but all this’ – she waves her hands in front of me – ‘has got to be for something – or someone . . .’ She suddenly gawps. ‘Oh God, you’re not meeting up with Luke, are you? Shit, please tell me you’re not planning on moving back in with that arsehole?’

  ‘God, no! I haven’t even thought about that.’

  And it’s true, things have gone very quiet on that front – which is entirely down to me. I know I’m putting off making a decision about our future, but I’m terrified by the enormity of what is at stake: basically my daughter’s entire well-being and happiness, not to mention my own. What if I make the wrong decision? It’s almost like I’m waiting for a sign, for something that will definitely prove that I can trust Luke again – or, more likely, that I can’t.

  I take a sip of coffee, trying to decide whether I should tell Jess what I’m really up to today. I’m embarrassed to tell her the reason that I’m looking marginally less shabby this morning, but at the same time I could really do with her advice. After all, she’s the one with the penis in her kitchen: she’s clearly good at this shit.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, putting down my mug. ‘So, this morning I’ve got to go back to the penthouse to take more photos.’ I pause. ‘You know, the penthouse with the American.’

  I watch Jess’ face as the penny drops. ‘Ah, I see. The engaged American, would that be?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, don’t worry. And I’m not for one moment planning on trying to tempt him away from his fiancée, if that’s what you’re thinking. Christ, no.’ I shake my head for emphasis. ‘Ideally I wouldn’t go back there at all, but I can’t get out of it – and believe me, I’ve tried. I even had a go at persuading Karl that the agency shouldn’t take on his property because this guy’s fiancée was proving so difficult, but it’s a really gorgeous apartment and Karl’s in line for a whopping great commission when he sells it, so . . .’ I tail off, shrugging. ‘Anyway, I decided that if I had to face the American again, it would be better not to turn up looking completely rough. It’s going to be excruciating enough as it is without him being repulsed by my saggy jeans and dull hair. I thought that if I made a bit of an effort, he might think: “Well, she’s not that minging, so I should probably be flattered that she tried to force herself on me”.’ I sigh; my logic suddenly seems, well, illogical. ‘Is this making any sense at all?’

  Jess weighs this up. ‘I think so. You want him to see what he’s missing?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that, I just . . . Look, I’m dreading seeing him again, it’s going to be mortifying, but if I have to do so, then surely I should be looking my best?’

  ‘Absolutely. Looking hot is always your best defence. Besides, you never know, he might take one look at your cute ass and decide to shelve the fiancée after all.’

  I grimace, although I must admit that I did fleetingly entertain that exact thought while I was doing my hair this morning. ‘Although,’ I go on, ‘chances are he’ll be back in New York by now and I won’t have to see him at all. That would be the best outcome by far.’

  *

  After dropping Dot with the childminder, I get a bus towards the Thames-side apartment complex, my nerves increasing at every stop. In my head I run through the speech I’ve prepared in case he’s there, which goes something like this: ‘I’m so sorry about how I behaved last t
ime I was here. It was completely inexcusable, but I was on heavy-duty medication for my allergies’ – I thought that might be the sort of thing an American would get – ‘which must have impaired my judgement. I really appreciate you not taking the matter any further and can only apologise for any distress I might have caused. Now let’s have a shag and forget all about it.’

  That last bit’s a joke, obviously. Just trying to lighten my mood.

  When I arrive at the apartment complex, the foyer feels even more intimidatingly luxurious than it did before – although that could be because I could barely see straight last time I was here. I notice little details that I missed on my first visit: the curled wire at the doorman’s ear, reinforcing the ‘secret service’ vibe of his dark glasses and overcoat, the enormous modernist chandelier made out of thousands of tiny crystals that looks like a magical floating waterfall, and the letters ‘WR’ inlaid across the marble floor, which I’m guessing stands for ‘Westminster Reach’, the name of the apartment complex, but equally could be ‘Wondrously Rich’.

  This time, rather than jumping straight into the penthouse lift, I buzz the intercom like a polite, sober person. After a few moments, a man’s voice answers. It sounds worryingly American; I have to fight the urge to turn and run.

  ‘Um, hello, is that Mr Michaelson?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he’s not here right now.’

  Relief rushes through me. Thank God. ‘It’s Annie Taylor from Curtis Kinderbey. I’m here to take some marketing photos of the property.’

  There’s a slight pause. ‘Come on up.’

  The lift doors glide open and I step in, enjoying the smell of wood polish and wealth, and check my reflection in the mirror. I’m pleasantly surprised by what I see, but then the lighting in here is bloody amazing: my skin looks so flawless it’s like I’ve been heavily filtered. Perhaps when you’re rich, your face is always this kind of a beautiful blur; maybe you never find out the harsh reality of what you really look like, because you only frequent places with super-flattering lighting. You probably float through life under the illusion you’re Gigi Hadid.