“Is my being here the reason for that grim face? Or are you shocked that I’m really Herbert the Nerd? No, I’ve got it: You don’t like hiking. I’ll sing a little song to cheer you up.”
He started off with made-up words to an oldie by the Boomtown Rats and sang with amazing accuracy, “Tell my why she don’t like hiking,” and then broke off. “Or you prefer something in German?”
And he belted out from Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin, “Wandering is the miller’s joy.” Also with a revamped text—“Wandering brings our Laura frustration. She no like perambulation”—and that gave me a severe laughing fit. I stopped walking and gasped for air. I begged him to lay off.
“Only if you keep laughing so nicely. You look terrific when you’re happy.”
And with those words he pulled me closer to him. I leaned on his chest for several seconds, smelling his exciting scent—a mixture of aftershave, deodorant, and a trace of fresh male sweat—and enjoyed the feel of his hand on my back. I looked into his eyes and observed that a gorgeous amber color flickered around his dark pupils. Oblivious of my surroundings I sank into his tender gaze. As his lips were approaching my mouth, I woke up from my hypnotic state. I stepped back in near panic and promptly caught my heel in the rocks. I’d have hit the ground if Nick hadn’t held me tight. Thank God his searching look was not angry!
“I’m gradually getting the feeling you don’t find me simpatico. You’d rather fall on the ground than let me kiss you. Or have I got bad breath?”
I felt like a complete idiot. Out of pure embarrassment, I gulped and stared intently at the rocks underfoot. I finally pulled myself together and looked him directly in his questioning face.
“Nick, I . . .”
I still wasn’t clear about whether I should really tell him the reason for my contradictory behavior. He must have taken me for a terrible prude. But since he showed no trace of wounded vanity and seemed really concerned that I didn’t sink limply into his arms, I owed him an explanation. I took a deep breath and told him the whole ghastly story about Tim and me, including his remark about my physical inadequacies.
“Since then, I’ve never let a man come near me. Nick, it’s really not your fault. I think you’re tremendously appealing. But I couldn’t bear falling for it again.”
After finishing my confession, I was prepared for him either to laugh at me or think I was crazy. In any case, I assumed he’d want to whisk me off home and I would have guaranteed he’d never want to see me again. As I spoke, his face got increasingly dark, and when I finished, he clenched his fists.
“What is this asshole’s name and where exactly does he live?”
With that degree of anger on Nick’s face, Tim was in acute danger of losing his life, and I was glad to be able to say honestly that, as far as I knew, he’d flown off to Sydney after our trip and still lived in Australia. I didn’t hate him anymore; he was of no consequence to me. But the psychological damage his words and behavior had caused lingered. I astonished myself by entrusting Nick with the painful secret I’d so carefully guarded until now, and felt grateful that he didn’t mock me for it. His affectionate gaze did me good. He cautiously reached for my hand again.
“It’s something to be proud of, the fact that you got into my car today. May I have your cell number now?”
I gave it to him and with secret pride stored the numbers he dictated in my address book; he threw in the casual remark, “It’s my unlisted number.” Then he looked at his watch with regret.
“We should slowly work our way back. I’ve got a business dinner date with my agent.”
We walked back the same way, and Nick almost scared me to death when he suddenly ran ahead, skillfully climbed a thick tree trunk, gingerly stood up in a fork, and then balanced himself over the stream on a strong branch. Terrified, I held my breath. He stopped right over the stream that was filled with jagged boulders and began to bob up and down as he beamed down at me from up there. I was petrified and stared at him in a state of shock. He could slip any second. I implored him to come back down. He landed on the path in one jump.
“You were afraid? Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“How do you know? You could have . . .” I stopped and shook my head. He flashed me a carefree smile. That was probably just a little demonstration of what he meant by “going to the edge” and “thrills.” I didn’t get it. To me, playing with your life and health was dangerous nonsense. But I didn’t say anything so as not to appear stuffy and ridiculous.
He made no further moves on the way to the car, which made me only partly happy. As we drove home, he regaled me with funny stories about shooting the series and anecdotes about his colleagues. We arrived at my apartment building far too quickly. Nick got out, held the door open for me, and scanned the facade of the unimpressive row house where my cozy second-floor apartment was. He regretfully refused my spontaneous and completely innocent invitation to come on up and have a drink.
“Love to another time. But I’ve got to be off. I have to shave and change, or Mira will lynch me. She makes a point of having me always look shipshape in public.” He rolled his eyes. “Image polishing and so on. Take care. I’ll be in touch soon.”
He took me briefly in his arms, pressed a little kiss on my cheeks, right and left, and let me go—much too quickly. I didn’t recognize myself. Until that afternoon, I’d rather have died than tell anybody about the appalling graduation-trip incident. And I never would have considered asking a man up to my apartment—nor would I have dreamed I’d wish he could squeeze me as long as possible.
I smiled at him and said, “Bye, Nick. Looking forward to hearing from you. Don’t drive so fast, get home safely, and thank you for the marvelous afternoon.”
I watched him drive away, slowly at first. He waved out the window. When I hurried upstairs, exhilarated by the wonderful day, it occurred to me that he was very vague about getting together again, and in a second my mood had plummeted into the cellar.
Chapter 4
That night and for days afterward I engaged in a futile struggle against my old familiar self-doubts and inner demons. They taunted me, saying I shouldn’t flatter myself that Nick was really interested in me. And it looked like they were right. I didn’t hear a peep from Nick the next day or over the weekend (how many days were meant by “soon”?), though my cell phone was charged and worked flawlessly. A more self-confident woman would, I suppose, simply phone him or at least text him. But that seemed too pushy to me, especially given his status.
I discovered a new tendency toward masochism when I yielded to an irresistible urge to Google him. I left my overdue paperwork in my in-tray as I trolled the Internet for information about him. I was both fascinated and horrified as I read the paeans of praise for his talent, the prizes he’d garnered, and the stars he’d worked with. He liked to jog and didn’t drink. His Facebook fan page had more than three hundred thousand likes.
I could see how vastly different our lives were. That hurt. He could just as well have come from another planet. But it was genuine torture to see the online gossip about his romantic affairs and the countless photos of him with all kinds of beautiful women. With an increasing fire in my gut, I studied every photo, noting how damn good he looked, and trying to tell from his expression whether there really was anything between him and any of the many women on his arm. But, of course, he was an actor, and the women were colleagues or well-known models—all well versed in presenting themselves. The second they were on camera, they could switch on their most dazzling smile and act their part. I didn’t succeed in separating wheat from chaff, the genuine girlfriends from the fake ones. In a deep gloom I turned off the computer and tossed and turned the whole night. It looked like he was a ladies’ man after all and that he’d slept with every one of those beautiful women—that’s how lovingly he beamed at every one of them.
A tiny voice in my head tried to speak
up, though: But he looked at you differently, more interested, more genuine, and never once with that exaggerated toothpaste smile. But when I didn’t hear from Nick all that Sunday, I figured that my first impression was correct, and that little voice had only been a feeble attempt at self-deception. Presumably, he’d found in the last few days more exciting and willing company than mine. My lonely weekend was neither relaxing nor stimulating.
With a heavy heart, I got into my car Monday morning and thought during the entire drive to the office about what to tell Chris to save face. It was hard enough to admit to myself that for the second time in my life I’d fallen violently in love and had played the fool. So I acted blasé, as though Nick and I had only lunched together, that he’d admitted who he was, and that I’d made it abundantly clear that this was the end of our rendezvous.
“He’s of no interest to me. I told him to leave me alone from now on, and I behaved so nastily that it’s exactly what he’ll do.”
Chris didn’t believe a word. She was newly in love with her guy from Cologne—who wanted to see her again regardless of her announced intention to marry him—and had on her rose-colored glasses. In her hopelessly romantically transfigured world, there weren’t any idiotic, rational actions such as showing an idolized movie actor the door—certainly not if the admirer in question was Dominick Vanderstätt.
She pelted me with words of wisdom that I knew she’d never follow herself: “He’s not conceited at all. In fact, his behavior seems perfectly fine and natural. And his efforts to get you to go out with him on Thursday shows he’s caught fire. Laura, you’re pretty shrewd, considering your lack of experience. The more you give a man the cold shoulder—especially if women normally throw themselves at his feet—the more desirable you’ll be to him. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts he’ll be back.”
Yeah, great! Now I definitely knew why I hadn’t heard from him. My unusual blind confidence made it too easy for him. Now that he’d figured out that I found him appealing, that I’d confessed my skeleton in the closet, and that I’d said I looked forward to seeing him again, I was of no interest to him anymore. The male hunting instinct was dead.
I turned to my files in total resignation and tried to distract myself from my brief excursion into the celebrity sphere. That afternoon a new client demanded my full attention, and I plunged into pocket calculators and tables for a comprehensive analysis of her financial situation. But scarcely had the lady left the office when the phone rang. My silly heart stumbled when I heard the voice I claimed I wasn’t interested in. My inner watchdog growled, warning me not to fall yet again for a man who saw me just as a diversion.
Nick sounded contrite. “Laura, I’m so incredibly sorry it’s taken me this long to call.”
Several sarcastic comebacks to this sentence occurred to me, such as: Did his telephone provider cancel his contract overnight? Or had Munich’s Inner City suddenly become a dead zone? Or did his agent lock him up in a cellar after their dinner together so I wouldn’t hurt his image? Or was he so bored that he wanted me to bitch at him some more? Of course, I was gracious and said nothing. I waited to see what flimsy excuse he’d come up with, trying to ignore the agitated tingling in my stomach. It felt like an ant colony was doing the samba in there. Chris gave me a high five when she caught on who was on the other end, and her face glowed in triumph.
Nick sounded anxious. “Laura? Are you still there?”
I got out an icy, “Yes, I can hear you very well.” Given my tone, I might as well have said, “Fuck off.”
I regretted my negativism when he said, in a small voice, “I got food poisoning at that damn dinner on Thursday. Like an idiot, I probably ate some bad oysters and was completely out of commission for three days. I’ve only felt more or less human since this morning. Laura, I want to see you as soon as possible. When are you free?”
I just about shouted, “Right now, if you want,” but held back in the nick of time. I also had no intention of following my partner’s advice to give him the cold shoulder. Those little tricks weren’t my cup of tea. All the same I didn’t want him to know I’d been anxiously waiting for his call all these days.
But Nick smoothly put a crimp in my plan to put him off at least until the next day. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “How about tonight? Tell me when you finish work and I’ll pick you up. Then we can decide what to do.”
We agreed he’d pick me up at my place. I really wanted to change my clothes. I wanted to provide some guarantees that getting to know him better was not completely far-fetched. He’d first met me in a cocktail dress, and when he carried me off to the picnic I was wearing office clothes—a skirt and a twinset. Today, however, I was at my desk in ancient jeans, a plain white shirt, and no makeup. My lousy morning mood had prevented me from making more of an effort. Even I was too vain to be seen like that.
The prospect of actually seeing Nick in a few hours had me so excited that I could barely concentrate on my work. When I tried to clear my tray of consulting reports, I caught myself staring dreamily out the window at the spot where he stood last week. In addition, I filed documents for a client named Zenker under “N” as in Nick . . .
Chris looked at me in amusement over her computer screen, and then made a sharp snap with her fingers. “Wake up, Laura! You might as well call it quits for today—it’s not like you’re getting anything done while you dream about your actor.” She cut off my halfhearted protest. “Yes, yes, I know, he’s absolutely of no interest to you. You’re simply seeing him out of pity.”
Chapter 5
Pity was not at all what I felt when the doorbell rang and I rushed downstairs to the front door. I greeted him with a smile of delight. His charismatic presence overwhelmed me just as it did the last time we met.
Nick did indeed look paler than he had the week before. But even the dark shadows under his eyes did not reduce his appetizing impression one whit. Regardless, it was immediately clear his illness was not an invented excuse. There was no question about it. His tone seemed more muted, more serious and meditative. A tiny touch of melancholy lay in the corners of his eyes. I immediately worried whether he was sorry to be spending an evening with me. His power of empathy amazed me again, as he guessed my hesitation before I even said anything.
“Sorry if I seem a bit out of it. Three days of forced fasting didn’t hurt me too much, but I’m still not 100 percent back on my feet. If you’re hungry, I’d be glad to take you out, but I’ll stick to Coke just to be on the safe side. That and a box of saltines are all I’ve eaten today.”
I’d already made myself some bread and butter shortly before he arrived to avoid the embarrassment of having my stomach growl again, so I could assure him in good conscience that I wasn’t hungry. Instead of dinner, we decided to take a walk, though not in the Inner City, which was crowded because of the warm weather.
“I want to talk to you. If there are a lot of people around, there’s always the danger that somebody will recognize me and speak to me. Then I have to sign autographs and pose for cell phone pictures. Normally I don’t mind—it comes with the turf. But I don’t want it to be like that today when I’m with you. We’ll find a quiet place out in nature where we can walk undisturbed.”
So we drove out on the highway for a bit, and I was happy he kept exactly to the speed limit and stepped on the brakes and gas pedal gently and sensitively without my saying anything. But it was by no means just to protect my own skin. The thought that he could be in an accident with worse consequences than last week’s pained my heart. I gave him a sidelong glance and downplayed my worries so I wouldn’t be so damn schoolmarmish and smart-alecky.
“Nick, please promise me that when you’re alone in this car that you’ll never drive so recklessly ever again. The mere thought makes me uneasy. It would be a real shame if the world lost a good actor and a nice person like you before your time.”
His mouth twisted into a
half smile, but I thought I saw an indefinable expression in his eyes. Without taking his gaze off the road he replied, “Thanks for the compliment, but this world has already lost several remarkable people at a young age, and it didn’t fall apart. I don’t flatter myself that I’m irreplaceable. And as I said, I’m not afraid to die, since I believe in life after death.”
I found this an odd remark from so young a man. Then again, what he said sounded very mature. He went on, “Do you know Antoine de Saint-Exupéry? In his book The Little Prince, the prince says at the end, ‘I’ll look as if I’m dead, and that won’t be true.’”
He went silent and gave me a reassuring look before adding, “But if it’s really important to you, in the future I will always drive as if you were beside me.”
My irrational heart leapt joyfully at this casual remark.
We parked at the edge of a little grove, where I’d often been on my bicycle. In view of our budding romantic affair, I thought it tactful not to mention to Nick that this place was nicknamed Murderer’s Grove. Two bodies had been discovered there in the last three years: a man who’d hanged himself and a woman stabbed several times, the victim of a tragic romance. Nevertheless, the wooded area was still a favorite destination for cyclists, hikers, and joggers because of its idyllic situation and the well-kept pathways. We headed for the path on the edge of the woods. I filled my lungs with the spicy forest air—a mixture of wood, new leaves, resin, and mold—and I was delighted to see delicate new greenery shooting forth from trees, bushes, and fields. Nick quite naturally took my hand after we got out of the car. Fortunately, we didn’t meet anybody who could take Nick’s undivided attention from me—except for a gray-haired dog owner walking his two darlings. The off-leash dogs—a sheepdog and a small mutt—galloped straight toward us. I stopped in my tracks. I was uncomfortable about the unfamiliar dogs bearing down on us, particularly as I could see they weren’t trained. They totally ignored their distant master’s shouts.
November Sky Page 5
