by Jaye Peaches
“Chemistry. Baloney.”
On and on, they dueled. Never becoming harsh or unpleasant, they agreed to disagree on many points until a customer arrived. I rushed out to the shop front to serve the man, desperate to escape my employers’ nitpicking of relationships.
I left my mobile switched off and prayed that Stefan didn’t come calling.
* * * *
I gathered up the bunch of flowers and dropped them into a bucket of water. Alone in the florist—Al out delivering and Bridget at the post office—I had the place to myself post-lunch.
A bell rang. The door to the shop had an old-fashioned ding-a-ling bell. Neither Al nor Bridget favored electronic devices, they just about managed the till. I carried the bucket out of the cold storage room and nudged the door shut with my bottom.
On the threshold of the doorway between the back rooms and the shop front, I froze on the spot. That familiar heart-pounding sensation hit the back of my throat.
Stefan stood by the counter. His face seemed drained of energy with bags under his eyes. I suspected his was a mirror image of my own face—a hollowed out expression of sleep deprivation. Part of me was pleased at his unhappy appearance, but some other hidden part of my psyche bordered on sadness, brought on by empathy. I shook my head slightly, snapping myself out of those sympathetic thoughts.
“I suppose this is the downside of you knowing where I work.” I dropped the pail on the floor with a clatter. Stefan flinched.
“You won’t answer my messages,” he said.
“With good reason.” I made a pretense of sorting receipts on the counter.
“I have to explain.” He took a step forward.
“What’s there to explain? You cheated on me.” I couldn’t look at his face. “I suggest you go.”
He traced a finger along the worktop. “I came here for a bouquet. Something special.”
“Oh. What kind of bouquet?”
He had a game plan, and for some reason, I went along with it. Curiosity or magnanimous benevolence?
“Something suitable for an apology.”
“Saying sorry with a bunch of flowers?” I tried to laugh, to mock him.
“Deeply. Profoundly. Sorry.” He breathed in with each word and spoke with increasing clarity of tone.
“Well, you need red roses.” I walked to the display racks and collected half a dozen roses. “Blood red for the broken, bleeding heart.” I snipped the stems down and put them in a plastic vase I used for arranging. “I’d normally trim off the thorns, but being in pain seems to be an essential part of rejection.”
“Please, take the thorns off. I don’t want to cause any more pain.”
I ignored his request.
“Then, lilies. Used quite a bit at funerals, reflecting sadness. Loss.” I picked a few and added them to the roses, moving them around to create a spray of red and white petals.
“Please, Callie,” he said softly. “Let me explain.”
“Were my eyes deceiving me? Was there not a naked woman in your house?” I stared right into his eyes, holding back my anger, my despair. I will not cry.
“She’s…not important to me.”
I guffawed in a mocking fashion. “Oh, that makes me feel so much better.” I slammed the scissors down and crossed my arms. “Because being replaced by an inconsequential nobody makes me… What? More valuable to you?”
“Magda. She’s called Magda and she’s not a nobody.” His tone had sharpened.
I gaped in disbelief. His hairdressing buddy? “You took me to her salon,” I said fiercely.
“You left on Sunday and… I have a situation with my family. It is spiraling out of control.”
Nothing he said made sense. “You wouldn’t speak to me. I gave you space. I thought that was what you needed. I could see you were frustrated, so I hung back.”
“I realize that now,” he sighed. “At the time, I assumed you wanted space too. You said the sex was great, and I concluded, obviously wrongly, that all you desired from me was sex, not companionship, so I took you home.” He ducked his head down.
I didn’t know what to say. If he expected me to feel remorse, he could forget it.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“So you went running to Magda, or did she come running to you after you summoned her for a fuck. Do you fuck her regularly? I mean, is this a Monday thing? Who do you fuck on Tuesdays?” I steamrollered into him. The cookie jar suddenly made a great deal of sense, with its ready supply of condoms.
“No. We meet occasionally. Very occasionally.”
“While you’ve been with me?”
“Just this time.” He screwed his hands into fists. “Look, I’m not good at this. I fuck, a lot, but I don’t do attachment. I like to be in control—you know that—and when I lose it, I seek it out. Sex, I mean. Irrational maybe, and Magda serves that need. Her needs too.” He pressed a fist to his chest. “This, in here, I’ve never had to deal with this raw emotion before. I’ve shunned it, kept it at bay, but you have broken barricades. I did not fuck Magda. You came at precisely the moment I backed off.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, brilliant. What a relief,” I said sarcastically. “That is exactly what I witnessed.”
“Did I look happy?”
I blinked at him. I could lie and say yes, but it wasn’t the truth. I’d clearly seen his face and it hadn’t looked like a man on the brink of fantastic sex, or any sex. I chewed my lip, not wanting to answer.
“I think you should go.”
“I made a mistake. A big mistake, Callie. I did what I usually do when I’m in a crisis and it was wrong. Very wrong. I’m sure you feel something. If you’d stayed—”
“Do not make this my fault,” I snapped, pointing a wavering finger at him. “Now, are you going to pay me for these flowers?”
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a note. I snatched it out of his hands. I quickly bound the stems with ribbon and thrust the bunch at him.
He stood holding the bouquet, his eyes startlingly shiny and his chest heaving with rapid breathing. He didn’t speak, but held the flowers out to me.
I shook my head.
“I’m polyamorous, Callie. I have sex with women, casual sex, and there is no emotional attachment to any of them. It’s just the way I am. But you. You are different. Believe me. I thought maybe you were seeking the same, the fucks. Then I saw your face through the glass, the horror in your expression, and I know now you feel something toward me.”
Arrogant bastard. My first reaction nearly spilled out of my mouth. ‘You are a dangerous fox, Stefan. A predator of women.’ A tear trickled down my face.
“Yes, I do—did…feel something and I came last night to tell you. You couldn’t wait, though, could you? You turned me into a game, a piggy in the middle. Polyamorous? A meaningless word. A pathetic excuse for a screwed-up man. I’m not your ruddy tonic. Take your flowers and get out!”
He stumbled backward with an aghast expression. He really had expected me to forgive him, but how could I? I didn’t understand why he needed Magda, but not me. Had I portrayed myself as a strumpet, a woman who sought casual relationships? Surely not.
The bell rang again as he opened the door. He paused on the threshold, as if he wanted to turn and speak again, but he didn’t. I watched him cross the road toward a bus stop. I approached the window and peered between the bunches of display flowers. He held the bouquet out to an elderly woman waiting under the shelter. She hesitated, uncertain of his offering. He smiled, probably saying something charming, and she accepted the bunch. With the flowers gone, he strode down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders slumped.
I shriveled up on the stool behind the counter in a flood of tears, not caring if another customer walked in. That was how Bridget found me. She gave me one of her characteristically claustrophobic bear hugs and put the kettle on.
She asked and I spewed it all in one mammoth monologue—how I’d met Stefan, the sex, the glorious sex, and M
onday night. She listened without commenting until I reached the part about the bouquet then offered me a tissue. I wiped my nose.
“He reminds me of myself,” said Bridget.
I blinked past the tears, surprised by her statement. “You?”
“Oh, yes. Queen of the one-night stands, drifting from one meaningless relationship to another. Never committing. Avoiding romantic claptrap.”
“But you always make out you’re happy?” I sniffed.
“I am. Now. I’m fifty-two, Callie. There is no point in regretting how things turned out, but that doesn’t mean it’s been an easy journey.” She held out the mug of coffee.
I sipped a few mouthfuls. “I don’t know what I feel now.” Truth. Confusion reigned in my head.
“You’ve been dating, what? Just over two weeks? Did you tell him you felt strongly about him?”
I cast my mind back to all those post-sex chats, and that was what they’d been about—sex. I’d avoided wrapping any other emotion around our erotic pastime for fear of what? Another Micah. A man who charmed me into his bed and left me each morning. “No. Probably not.”
“Did you imply anything else? That just having sex was okay?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. All the same, it doesn’t alter the fact he went with another woman.” I put the mug on the counter, my hand trembling uncontrollably.
“I don’t think he deserves you. Mucking about with a pretty girl like you.”
“Magda is beautiful.” I recalled her face through the window. She possessed all those natural features that encapsulated beauty.
“Don’t put yourself down,” said Bridget sharply.
“How can I trust him after this?” I asked, more to myself than Bridget.
“Ask Magda for her side of the story.”
“Seriously?”
“You know where to find her. Go. Ask. If she is nothing more than a casual fling, she won’t mind who you are. If he’s cheated on you both… Well, she might go off in a towering rage, but at least you’d know he was lying.”
True. However, Bridget made it sound so easy and my confidence had hit an all-time low. “I’ll think about it.”
The bell rang and I peeked over the counter, fearful that Stefan was back and he would see me in a distressed state. It was Al. I brushed the hair out of my face and plastered on a fake smile. Bless him, he didn’t ask, just walked on by to the back office.
* * * *
All Wednesday, I fretted about orchestra rehearsal. Did I go? My first reaction was no. Stay away and not face him. However, I had missed loads of practice over the winter and the others relied on me. The concert wasn’t far away. I had to maintain my professionalism.
I decided to go on my bike. I’d leave with plenty of time to ensure that if he did decide to pick me up, I’d already be on my way. Throughout the practice, I wouldn’t look at him. Instead, my eyes would follow the tip of his baton and nothing else. During the break, I planned to be wherever he wasn’t to avoid bumping into him. I’d either stay in my seat if he went for a coffee or hide in the side room behind the tall brass members. I plotted it all out. A pathetic, cowardly attempt at avoiding any contact with Stefan.
My scheming didn’t help my nerves. Bridget pottered about me, making sure I kept busy and distracted. I’d been tempted to ring my mother the previous evening and cry down the phone at her, but she wouldn’t have understood. Better shot of him, she’d declare, just as she did when I finished with Micah. My sister—a definite no—she’d tell me I had it coming and what was two weeks but a piss in the ocean of life?
Magda occupied my thoughts too. Did I or didn’t I confront her?
I arrived at the church hall on time, sorted out Nettie and my stand, listened to Cordelia run down her week of disobedient children and unsupportive husband.
I tried to evade looking at the conductor’s stand and podium. Impossible, given its central location. However, when I snatched a glance, I remained fixed on the podium. Debbie stood on it, armed with a baton. She nervously cleared her throat and tapped the baton on the stand, once, with a tiny flick of her wrist, the second time she rattled it loudly. Everyone went quiet. “I’ve an announcement. Unfortunately, Stefan has had to travel to Germany at short notice. A personal matter and unavoidable. He sends his apologies and hopes to be back next week. Now the real bad news, I get to conduct.”
There were polite titters of amusement at her joke. I sat stunned. He’d gone to Germany. When? The text messages had stopped after he’d visited the florist. He might have left yesterday or today. Either way he was gone.
I should have felt relaxed, the pressure off, but his absence bothered me. My lack of concentration showed. I failed to show off my improved solos and fluffed quite a few notes. During rests, when I should have been counting, I meandered over Monday. He’d kept secrets from me. My curiosity was getting the better of me and the image of a naked woman on all fours rose into my mind. Magda. His secret lover. She might have the answers and explain his sudden departure. I’d bottled out of visiting her, but now my courage grew. Tomorrow, I’d finish early, hop on my bicycle and visit that salon again. Would she be there and would she see me? Only one way to find out.
Chapter Twelve
“I would like to speak to Magda.” I tried to sound super confident, but my legs had turned to jelly and my voice wavered. I cleared my throat. “Please tell her it’s Callie.”
The receptionist pushed her spectacles back up her nose and stared down at me. “Is she expecting you?”
“No,” I said, fearing she would greet my honesty with a brush-off.
“Wait here.” She trotted over in her ridiculously high heels to a door at the back of the salon.
A few minutes passed before the receptionist reappeared, waving me over. “This way.”
The office she led me to mirrored the elegance of the salon, complete with modern furniture and more large canvas portraits. I took it in with one dismissive glance because I wanted to focus my attention on the woman on the other side of the desk. She rose to greet me. A tall woman with flowing black hair and a figure, which she’d encapsulated in a refined business suit, I would have killed to have—curvy in all the right places.
“Callie, I’m so glad you came to find me.” She held out her hand and pointed to a chair. “Please, sit.”
I hovered uncertainly. So far, things hadn’t happened as I’d expected. I could rule her out as the injured party. She didn’t exactly leap at my throat in anger. Quite the contrary, she behaved impeccably, if a little awkwardly, fidgeting with the buttons of her jacket. I sat, crossing my legs and arms protectively. My insides churned with nervous energy. Now I was here, I didn’t know what to say to her.
“I had no way to contact you,” she said, sitting back down.
“Why are you glad?” I asked bluntly.
“Because I want you to understand about Stefan and me. What we are together. Can I get you a drink?”
I shook my head. “You’re the woman he fucked instead of me.”
Whether my coarse language offended her, I didn’t care, but she stiffened and shuffled back in her seat. “You’ve not been with him long, have you? He’s a complicated man. Introverted, until it comes to sex. Have you noticed how he likes it?”
Her interrogation was way off the radar of what I’d expected from our encounter. “I suppose you could say he’s in charge,” I blustered, recollecting my last punishment fuck.
She laughed gently. “Yes, you could say that. He is a Dominant.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“And I am a submissive,” she added.
“And me, what am I?” I threw back, annoyed at the labels.
“You, my dear, are the spanner in his works. You’ve thrown him into a state of turmoil.” She smiled subtly.
I unfolded my arms and scratched my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Stefan likes to be in control, yes? You’ve clearly noticed that, even in the short time you’ve known him.
When he’s stressed—and he is at the moment, because of family issues, but other times in the past, too—he seeks out companionship and sex. It’s what he does. I provide him with what he needs. He gives me what I need too.”
“What you need?”
“Not love or romance. Nothing like that. We don’t date. No dinners out or walking hand in hand along The Backs.”
She paused and I had no doubts that Stefan had told her about our Saturday together. “We fuck, as you say so elegantly.”
“That simple. Fantastic for you,” I sneered.
“Yes, it is. And you know it is for you, or else why are you here trying to fathom him out?”
Her honesty kept me pinned in my seat and not storming out through the door. “When did you first meet?”
“Three years ago.”
My open mouth of surprise must have been obvious, because she gave a small shrug.
“We were introduced through mutual friends. I have to be clear here, Callie. I’m not the only one. He has been with other women at the same time. Not ménages and not recently, as far as I’m aware, but in the past.”
“And you don’t have a problem with this?”
“No.” She lay her hands flat on the table—impeccably manicured fingernails. “Stefan doesn’t socialize much. I’m big into the networking side, so it is easier for me to meet people and introduce them to him.”
Every new revelation stung me. I’d not expected any of what she was telling me. I’d imagined that Stefan, who professed he didn’t date, simply slept around and lied about it. I didn’t interrupt. I wanted to know more. I was finding out more from a woman I should have been despising than Stefan had ever told me himself.
“He interviewed me—”
“Interviewed?” I repeated.
“To ensure compatibility between us. Some men I go with like lots of rules, but Stefan is quite relaxed and informal about things. We usually meet once a month, although more recently I’ve been very busy setting up my fourth salon, so we’ve slipped. Monday was the first time in nearly two months.”
