The One Who Got Away

by Caroline Overington

  I didn’t tell Molly that I was hoping to also see David while I was in town. She wouldn’t have been happy, not after how he’d dumped me.

  Anyway, I flew into LAX on the Friday, and spent the Saturday with Molly. Her condo is on the Low Side, so there was no real risk of bumping into David, but I still found myself on high alert as we cruised around the shopping centre, searching for something for Dad.

  The party was on Saturday night, and Sunday was a bit of a hangover day, but by Monday, I was more than ready to run into David.

  To this day, he doesn’t know it, but I had engineered the meeting from the start. From what I could tell from looking on Google – is that stalking, or is that due diligence? – David had opened an office in Bienveneda, between the new Cupcake Heaven and the old Citibank.

  There was a Starbucks nearby.

  Was luck going to be on my side? That was the question I was asking myself as I headed out on the Monday morning. On the face of it, yes. The day was gorgeous. I’d rented a Mustang to drive from LAX into Bienveneda – it’s about three-and-a-half hours, one way – and with the sky so blue and the skinny palms waving in the breeze, it felt right to put the top down as I cruised into Main Street.

  My goal was to find a parking space about 300 feet away from David’s office, so I’d have to walk past his front door to get to the Starbucks. I had to go around the block twice before I found one, and I remember thinking: Please don’t let him see me doing laps.

  Anyway, I found one, parked, and took a few steps in the direction of Starbucks. I had no idea – none at all – as to where David’s desk was in relation to the front windows, or whether he was even at work. Would he be able to see me as I walked by, and would he come straight out?

  Apparently not, because nothing happened.

  Damn it.

  I continued on towards Starbucks, where I joined the line for coffee, thinking, this is no good. What if David hadn’t come into the office? What if he was at the gym? Or worse, in New York? What if he couldn’t see the street from where he sat?

  I gave my order. The girl behind the counter spelled my name incorrectly (they always do). The barista took ages, which was fine. Time spent amidst the souvenir cups and the foil bags of coffee beans at Starbucks was time during which David might move towards his window.

  ‘Caramel frappuccino for Loron?’

  I took the cup off the counter, and popped a straw through the domed lid. Alright. Time to try again. I stepped out of Starbucks and began walking towards the rented Mustang, and I swear to God, I was about to click the locks on the car, when David called out.

  ‘Loren? Loren Franklin?! Hey, stop, Loren, is that you?’

  I had to do a double-take. David wasn’t wearing a suit and sure, I’d seen him in workout gear, and I’d seen him in boxer shorts, but I’d never seen him dressed for business in California. David was wearing red Bermuda shorts, with a baby-blue polo and a bright-pink belt. He looked like Tommy Hilfiger. Not the designer. The ad.

  He looked, to be frank, a bit dorky.

  I was wearing white. All white. White jeans. White T-shirt over a push-up T-shirt bra, with cream ballet flats. The effect I was going for was easy, breezy California. My hair was up in one of those carefree, dancing ponytails that take forever to get right.

  ‘It is you!’ said David. ‘Loren Franklin! What the hell are you doing here?’

  I’m hoping to run into you! That was the honest answer, but I didn’t say that.

  I said: ‘David! Oh my goodness, that’s right, you came back here! I’d completely forgotten. You work here? In this street?’

  David nodded. ‘I do. This is my office. Capital Shrine. I’ve been back here, what … ages now. But what about you? Visiting your folks or …?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, sipping my frappuccino, ‘it’s my father’s birthday … we had a big party on Saturday night … I’m heading back tomorrow.’

  ‘No way,’ said David. He was using his boat shoe to stand half in and half out of his office. ‘I mean, look, don’t run off … what are you doing now? Do you want to get something to eat?’

  I hesitated. I even checked my watch, like I had somewhere else to be.

  ‘Well, alright,’ I said. ‘Sure, why not?’

  * * *

  We went to the Jetty, the bar where the yachties go for cold beers after a good day’s sail. It’s faux-casual, in that you need a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and George Hamilton tan to really fit in.

  ‘Hey, David, so great to see you!’ said the girl on the door. ‘It feels like it’s been ages!’

  David said, ‘Great to see you, too, Candy,’ and kissed her cheek.

  Candy?

  ‘You want outside?’ she asked, sneaking a glance at me. ‘I can seat you guys outside.’

  ‘Oh, babe, that would be excellent,’ said David.

  ‘Of course!’ she said.

  David stepped back to allow me to go first. I followed Candy’s nut-brown legs out to the tables on the deck. David followed right behind, guiding me into my chair by putting his hand on the back pocket of my white jeans.

  Alright, I thought, that’s a good sign.

  Candy seated us as close to the edge of the deck as it was possible to get without the table falling into the bay. I knew the Jetty by reputation but had never actually been there before. It was so pretty. There were boats bobbing on the water directly in front of us.

  ‘It’s our best table,’ Candy said.

  ‘You’re too good to me,’ said David.

  Candy smiled. ‘I’ll go get you guys some water. Tap water okay? And I’ll bring you some menus.’

  I waited for her to be out of earshot before I said: ‘Current or former?’

  ‘Candy?’ said David, all innocent.

  ‘Yes, Candy. Tell me you haven’t.’

  ‘Haven’t what?’

  I thought about what to say but only for a split second. Then, all cool, I said: ‘Buried your face in her pussy, David.’

  He was shocked. I was pretty shocked myself. That wasn’t like me. As a rule, I don’t go for dirty talk. David had tried to encourage me a few times in New York and I had been absolutely hopeless at it, but I’d learned quite a bit in the time we’d been apart, including the fact that alpha men like David tend to prefer a woman with more confidence – including sexual confidence – than I’d had in my early days in Manhattan.

  ‘Maybe that’s your fantasy,’ David said, eyes wide. ‘Want me to call her over here and ask if she’s on the menu?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, smiling. ‘You do that. But if she is on the menu, I get to taste her first.’

  ‘Fair enough!’ said David, impressed. ‘Here she comes now!’

  Candy was skipping back across the floor in her bright-white sneakers. She had two water glasses in one hand, and a couple of over-sized menus under her arm.

  I was quite sure that David had a raging erection under the table, and that he was using his linen napkin to try to cover it.

  ‘Alright!’ Candy said, smiling her radiant, Californian smile. ‘Here’s some water. Now, what else can I get you guys to drink?’

  David said: ‘You know what? This is something of a reunion for us. I think champagne is in order. What do you say, Loren?’

  ‘Champagne sounds good,’ I said, ‘but you know, I don’t have a lot of time. Maybe we should order?’

  ‘Oh right,’ said David. He was taken aback. ‘Okay. Well, do you want to look at the menu, or should I just order for both of us?’

  ‘Yes, order,’ I said, ‘I don’t much mind.’

  ‘Okay, well …’ David cast his eyes over the menu. ‘Well, I guess we’ll have the oysters, maybe some octopus … is that blackened on the grill? Okay, we’ll take that, maybe with the lime mayonnaise. And I don’t know, fries?’

  ‘Fries are great,’ I said.

  Candy nodded as she took it down. ‘You guys have a big appetite today!’ she said.

  ‘Loren has an appetite,’ David said
, looking cheekily over his massive menu. ‘Maybe we should ask her, what else do you fancy, Loren?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine for now,’ I said, winking back, ‘but maybe we’ll get dessert.’

  Candy wasn’t in on the joke – she was the dessert – but she smiled, and gathered up the menus. ‘Super! I’ll get that underway for you!’

  As soon as she was gone, David tried again. ‘So … what kind of dessert did you have in mind?’

  I pretended like I didn’t get it, and David took that as a cue to back off. The champagne came, and he raised a toast. ‘To old friends!’ We clinked and drank and shared some small talk. The food arrived, but who had an appetite? Not me. There’s no denying that the atmosphere was electric: twenty minutes into lunch, I was wet through my G-string, and David surely knew it.

  Neither of us wanted to leave.

  ‘Hey, don’t you have to get back?’ he asked at one point.

  ‘I’m having too much fun,’ I said. ‘Don’t you have to get back?’

  ‘I’m the boss,’ David replied, all swagger. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’

  We smiled at each other. David picked up a fry, dipped it in mayonnaise, and offered it to me. I burst out laughing. We kept on drinking. The sun started to sink and the other customers began to leave, and the point came when we had to go, too.

  Candy brought the cheque. David paid, and we rose together.

  ‘That was so much fun,’ I said.

  David appeared surprised. ‘Don’t tell me we’re done? You promised me dessert.’

  ‘Oh, look, I’d love to,’ I said, ‘but I’ve been out all afternoon already. I only ever told Molly I was popping out to Starbucks. I’ve got to get back.’

  David seemed to be devastated. Alright, that might be pushing it, but he did look dismayed, and he was still trying to talk me around as he drove me back to my car. ‘Are you sure? Because when am I going to see you again?’

  I held my nerve. Given how much I’d had to drink, I probably shouldn’t have gotten out of his car and into mine, but I did, and I made it back to Molly’s safely, thank goodness.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded, as I crashed through the front door.

  I didn’t want to go into the story with her so I fudged and weaved.

  ‘You reek of alcohol,’ she said accusingly. ‘Don’t tell me you drove?’

  ‘Don’t lecture,’ I complained. ‘I just bumped into an old friend and we had lunch.’

  I could tell she wanted to scold me – Molly can be funny like that – but I wasn’t having any of that nonsense. I curled up on the sofa beside her, so we could, like I’d promised, watch re-runs of Friends.

  ‘No, we shouldn’t watch this,’ Molly cried, halfway through the first episode. ‘It’ll make you miss New York too much.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ I said dreamily, ‘I haven’t even thought about New York, not once, all day.’

  * * *

  Did you make it home okay?

  I was sitting in my office at Book-IT when my cell phone buzzed with a message from David. He was in his office in Bienveneda, but his mind wasn’t on the job. I don’t want to sound smug, but it seemed like he was thinking about me.

  I’d been thinking about him, too.

  Hey, are you there?

  I hadn’t replied to David’s first text. That was another thing I’d learned in the time we’d been apart: guys don’t seem to mind when you play a little cool.

  I’m here, I responded.

  Call me, he texted, I want to hear your voice.

  This was working out better than I’d hoped, and yet I felt so anxious. Spending time with David in Bienveneda had confirmed for me what I’d always suspected – I was crazy about him – and I really didn’t want to blow it.

  I texted back: lunch was great … next time you’re in nyc we should def catch up … and then I waited, and ping!

  CANT WAIT. NEED YOU NOW.

  I suppose there’s no real point in going over how fast things moved from there. David made plans to get on what may even have been the next flight to JFK and within weeks we were again an item, meaning I had to tell Molly, because how else was I going to explain why I was suddenly in town all the time?

  ‘But don’t worry,’ I said, ‘this time I have one foot on the brake.’

  Molly was concerned. ‘You have exactly no feet on the brakes,’ she said, ‘I can tell from your voice. You’re in love with this guy.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I said, but who was I kidding? I wasn’t just in love. I was planning on moving.

  Six weeks after that lunch at the Jetty, I had my résumé up on LinkedIn, with the preferences set to California.

  ‘It just makes sense,’ I told Molly, ‘all this commuting is driving us both crazy. And you should see my Verizon bill. The phone sex alone is costing me a hundred dollars a month.’ (Ah, yes, the phone sex! Who remembers phone sex? Suck me, lick me, touch me, fuck me, suck me, lick me, touch me, fuck me …)

  ‘Also, with the business I’m in – online – there are a lot more opportunities on the West Coast,’ I continued. ‘I mean, a lot more.’

  ‘The way you’re talking, it’s like this is a done deal,’ said Molly.

  ‘It’s not,’ I said, but in truth, I’d already had two offers. One of them was to work at a place called Facebook. In fact, I remember saying to Molly: ‘I don’t know, it seems a bit risky …’

  Argh!

  The second offer was from the LA Times, which was where I went.

  ‘It’s more solid than Facebook,’ I said, ‘and it’s in LA. I can live in Santa Monica! That’d be nice. I’d be by the beach, out of the cold.’

  ‘Closer to David,’ said Molly.

  ‘Closer to David,’ I agreed, without even thinking.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ said Molly. ‘How do you know he’s not going to break your heart. I mean, again?’

  ‘No, no, not this time,’ I said. ‘This time, I’m in charge.’

  * * *

  ‘David?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘That guy – the one from Bienveneda Golf? He’s just sent you another email.’

  It was a holiday weekend in California, and I was seated at the kitchen bench at David’s place on Bienveneda’s High Side. We’d been dating for something like six months, and I guess I’d become a regular there, so much so that the housekeeper knew how I took my coffee.

  David was on the patio, doing his bicep curls. His laptop was on the bench in front of me, bleeping like mad.

  ‘Ignore him,’ David grunted.

  ‘I can’t ignore him. He’s been sending emails for an hour and it’s driving me crazy. Why don’t you just get back to him? It’s not like he wants you for a bad reason.’ I held up the screen so David could see the messages coming in. ‘Can’t you see all these dollar signs? He wants to give you money.’

  ‘I don’t want his money,’ said David, curling the hand weight up towards his chest.

  ‘But why? Isn’t that what you do? Take people’s money? Invest it? Turn it into more money?’

  ‘Technically yes,’ said David, grunting again, ‘but I don’t do it for everyone, and I don’t do it on demand.’

  He placed the weight gently back into its rack, and reached for a gym towel.

  ‘I don’t get that,’ I said, closing the laptop. ‘What’s wrong with this guy’s money?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said David, stepping into the kitchen to reach for my juice, ‘except that right now, I’m not taking it.’

  ‘Well, it’s driving him crazy,’ I said, swiftly moving the glass away from his grasp.

  ‘And that’s the point,’ said David.

  How was that the point? I genuinely wanted to know. David knew exactly what I did at work – I managed the Lifestyle pages for the LA Times – but I had only the vaguest idea what it was that he did for a living.

  ‘Look, investing is nine-parts a confidence game,’ David said, opening the laptop so he could begin deleting emai
ls. ‘I get requests like this all the time. People want me to take their money and make a fortune for them. For one thing, it’s not that easy. For another, I don’t take money from just anyone. Believe me when I tell you that ignoring a guy like this makes good business sense.’

  ‘I just don’t get how,’ I said, stretching out my legs so I could wrap them around David’s naked torso.

  ‘Well then, watch and learn,’ he said.

  I watched as David tapped away at the keyboard:

  Dear Pete, thanx for your emails, but as outlined in our earlier conversation, Capital Shrine is not currently seeking new investors. I wish I could be more help, but my best advice is for you to find an alternative investment vehicle at this time.

  ‘There you go,’ David said, pressing ‘send’. ‘Now watch what happens.’

  Within seconds, a flummoxed email came back: Cut to the chase, David. What’s the minimum spend?

  David grinned. He replied: No minimum spend. Just no openings at this time. I’m sorry, Pete. I’ll let you know if circumstances change.

  Send.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, shutting the laptop, ‘now, let’s go do something fun, and then we’ll see what he’s saying when we come back.’

  Something fun? I knew what that meant. I let David pick me up from the bar stool and carry me back to the bedroom. Emerging two hours later – wet from the shower this time, with a towel on my head – we returned to the laptop and sure enough, there were a dozen more messages from desperate Pete.

  Can’t we talk about this?

  When do you anticipate an opening?

  Is there some sort of message here I’m not getting?

  ‘Are you going to answer him?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  I shrugged. That didn’t sound like great business sense to me, but how was I to know? I’d never run a business. Besides which, we had things to do. Our morning had been taken up with David’s workout, followed by sex; our afternoon was to be consumed by David’s desire to buy an expensive mountain bike (maybe followed by more sex) and he’d taken a table at a fundraising gala for the Booster Club for Bienveneda Grammar, his old school, to be held at the Nineteenth Hole that evening.

  The gala was black tie, and I was excited about it. I’d never been to the Nineteenth Hole. It’s members and their guests only, and that includes the ballroom. I’d ordered a silky red dress – it was floor-length, with one shoulder – to be delivered to David’s, and I had new shoes – Jimmy Choo – plus David had splashed out on a pretty pendant, with the sun, the moon and a tiny gold star.