Men Like This

by Roxanne Smith

  She sighed and continued at his waiting expression. “I started with short stories after I had Seth and quit college halfway into an accounting degree. A little hobby to entertain myself. I wrote every genre except romance.”

  He tipped his glass toward her. “Ha. How’s that for irony? You’ve come round full circle. Why ever not romance, the typical genre of choice for the fairer sex?”

  “Simply put?” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with the napkin. She’d come this far, might as well tell him everything. “Motive. For every action a character makes, you have to answer the question of why. With romance, you’ve got love and not much else. Maybe passion and jealousy, but it’s pretty limited. People fall in love because of chemicals in the brain and whatnot. Now, people commit murder for any number of reasons, none guaranteed to make sense. There’s love, the passion and the jealousy it brings along, greed, insanity, hate, and any combination thereof.”

  He nodded and chewed thoughtfully. “Essentially, with a romance you’re saying Jill loves Bob because Jill loves Bob. In your preferred version, Bob kills Jill because blank.”

  “She might’ve taken the television remote. People are nuts.”

  This time he shook his head. “Far too believable, that. In fact, it makes sense next to some things I’ve seen on the evening news.”

  She pointed a chopstick at him. “My point exactly.”

  “What do you have against a simple murder mystery, though? Why the graphic details? I mean, what part of you enjoys describing decapitation to such a clinical degree? You’ve about run down the list of ways it can happen, haven’t you?”

  “Not even close.” She downed the rest of her wine. “Three decapitations: chainsaw, semi-truck, and The Cannibal, a title which speaks for itself. Though there’s been some debate as to whether it was technically a beheading.”

  He made a show of shivering and snagged the last rangoon. “The semi-truck, probably my least favorite scene ever in the world. ’Bout broke my heart. You cultivate a certain omnipresent cruelty I can’t wrap my head around, like the universe itself is out to kill people. Poor bloke, after hours of gruesome and heavily detailed torture, manages to escape and wander through the woods despite his wounds. He stumbles upon the highway and he’s safe, right? He falls to the ground weeping in relief because his life is saved, and he’s going to make it. Oh, wait, this is a Hazel novel, so no, he’s not. Instead, a semi is going to come ’round the corner and hit him just so, so as to whip his head right from his shoulders. Your idea of an epilogue is the trucker stopping for gas and discovering facial remains in his tire treads. Terrible, brilliant, and gross.” He shook his head in awe. “Really, really gross.”

  “A really, really gross best-seller.”

  He refilled her glass on cue. “Easy on the wine, love. It’s early still.” He refilled his own, and by some unspoken decision between them they toasted silently. “Basically, you like coming up with new and interesting ways to kill people. I shall sleep soundly tonight.”

  “I freely admit offing people on paper is fun. It’s the mechanics of the thing.” She paused to take the tiniest of sips. “Description is important, but what can love do? What does it look like, smell like? How many different ways can two people stare into each other’s eyes and dream Hallmark dreams? Blood is made for action. It sprays, spatters, seeps, drips, smears, erupts, gushes, and spews. Gore lends itself to direct and expressive writing, and there’s nothing more enjoyable than that.”

  He smiled at her with open admiration. “And you said the answer wasn’t fascinating.”

  “It’s mildly interesting at best. The kind of thing that never makes it into an autobiography.”

  “More’s the shame, and I disagree. What you’ve done is akin to becoming an accountant because it’s practical and recession-proof only to fall in love with numbers and ledgers. Not everyone loves their day job, you know.”

  She reflected on the odd change in his tone as he dressed an oyster in hot sauce and inhaled it in one quick bite.

  “Are you saying you don’t love what you do?” She posed the question with a valiant effort to hide her doubt. Jack’s choice in fiancée alone pretty much told the story.

  He gave her a small, lacking smile. “The grass is always greener, they say. Like any relationship, you either try harder, perhaps water the lawn once in a while, or you walk away.”

  This time she didn’t bother concealing her dubious reaction. “You’re serious? You don’t love acting?”

  He held out a hand for the check at the same time the waiter approached with a small black booklet in hand. “Not especially, no.” He tucked two large bills inside without glancing at the total. “Are you ready? C’mon, we’ve got places to go, my dear.”

  “Well, now, hold on. This is interesting.” She had no right to ask, but when did Jack ever take rights into account when it came to appeasing his own rampant inquisitions?

  “Another time.” He stood and held out a hand for her to join him.

  If she were like him, she’d press until he surrendered a satisfactory answer. Instead, put off by the departure of his usual good humor, she let it go. For now.

  Chapter 11

  Jack did his best to hide his disappointment in himself.

  Not too difficult given his eagerness to show Quinn the unique beauty of London’s Chinatown. He loved exploring the seemingly endless streets and mysterious alleyways full of exotic smells and strange characters, and not often did he have such lovely company while doing so.

  He wished over and over, however, he’d have been more suave over lunch.

  There he sat, dining with Clementine Hazel, getting remarkable insight into literary genius, and what else could he do but go and ruin it by whining like a prissy girl about his job.

  His job, of all blasted things, the last thing he ought to have the nerve to complain about. He’d explain it to her once he figured out how to accomplish the task without making himself out to be even more of a prat.

  Sundown fast approached. He plumbed the depths of his knowledge and employed a Sherlockian method of choosing their final destination.

  Nicholas would’ve been like a schoolteacher guiding Quinn through the city. She’d probably visited every flashy tourist trap in the city. Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Tower of London, Hyde Park, Millennium Bridge, the view of downtown over Canary Wharf at night.

  Jack wanted to take her somewhere special. Not a place you’d necessarily find in a brochure or on a bucket list of things to do while in London, a place Old Nick lacked the gumption and creativity to consider.

  He hailed a cab from Chinatown with a good hour until the early fall sundown. Quinn’s hand had found its way into his—or perhaps his had simply taken possession of hers—as they exited the backseat amid the busy Camden streets, bustling with the nine-to-fivers heading home from work, while expertly dodging her many questions about where they were going.

  “Hey, I’ve been here.” She glanced around, taking in the scenery but seeming not to notice the two paparazzo who’d climbed out of the taxi two cars down from theirs.

  Crestfallen, he ignored them and gave Quinn his attention. “You have?”

  “Sure. Queen Mary’s Gardens are across the way, right?”

  He grinned and spared a glimpse for the gardens lying in the exact opposite direction of the one where he intended to take her. “Yes. You are correct.” He swung his arm due north. “But we’re going this way, to Regent’s Park. Come along.”

  The park’s size ran close to two square kilometers. It meant no short walk to their destination and uphill to boot on a wide, packed dirt path. At the top, the large hill offered a unique vantage point, and he smiled at Quinn’s quizzical expression.

  “Primrose Hill,” he announced. He took her by the shoulders and turned her back the way they’d come.

  He’d always had a knack for timing.

  The skyline of central London blossomed in the distance, striking against the golden, pinkis
h sky, courtesy of the setting sun. They stood for some time staring out at the panoramic backdrop of sun and steel until the pink began to fade into a deep gold and from gold to purple.

  He dared a quick study of the woman beside him. He was pleased as a pig to find an openmouthed smile of faint surprise splitting Quinn’s face. He smiled, too. Take that, Canary Wharf.

  He dropped down onto the grass, which had yellowed with the onset of cooler weather, and beckoned her to join him. She plopped beside him without breaking her gaze. Content quiet reigned, and he was glad to let it.

  The birds loudly enjoying their slice of nature amid a sprawling metropolis, as well as students, lovers, and friends doing the same provided ambient background noise.

  He considered ruining quiet moments his personal modus operandi, but to his surprise, Quinn broke their ponderous silence first.

  “I’ve been here quite a while. Long enough to have seen downtown from the other side of Canary Wharf at night”—he knew it—“the Gherkin and Millennium Bridge. Despite blatant modern touches, when I imagine London, I still envision chimney sweeps and meat pies, not five-star Asian cuisine and fantastic urban skylines. This rivals anything New York City has to offer.”

  His ears must have deceived him. “Chimney sweeps and meat pies? It isn’t 1842, for goodness’ sake. No, forget goodness. For my sake.”

  One delicate shoulder lifted and dropped. “Sorry. Born and raised on Dickens. His London is my London.”

  “Bloody Americans.” He ruefully shook his head. “Bloody Dickens.” He slid his arm around her shoulder to communicate there were no hard feelings and also for the sake of putting his arm around her. She leaned into him, and little else in his experience had ever fit so perfectly. Not even his best tailored Italian designer suit.

  Without warning, she sat up straight and pinned him with an observing eye. “Tell me about your job, Jack.”

  Balls. He shifted uncomfortably. “I had a moody moment earlier, nothing more. I can be a bit of a girl sometimes.”

  “Are you trying to distract with me with blatant sexist comments?”

  He let his arm drop. “Of course not.”

  “It’s not fair. I’ve told you lots of stuff about myself, but I have nothing on you except a little information about your mother. You’re impossible to read, and today I finally spied some grit under your smooth outer shell. I’ve seen you upset, witnessed you hurt and I can’t wait to see you well and truly pissed off, but I’ve never imagined you . . . malcontent, I guess is the word.”

  “A fallacy of which I’ve never heard the likes.”

  He opted to ignore her outlandish claim. What woman wanted to see an angry man? Women were supposed to avoid things like angry men. Angry women, too, lest he be accused of being sexist again.

  “I’ll talk if you want but not to even some nonexistent playing field. I’ve got Clementine’s number all right, but you? I had to practically pry information about Nicholas from your little fingers, and you won’t give me so much as a crumb regarding the book you’re writing.”

  She blanched and went still.

  Jack feared he’d pushed too hard. He checked a groan of exasperation and made quick reparations. “What would you like to hear, Quinnie? Just don’t ask me to start from the beginning. I’m well over thirty, and we haven’t had supper yet.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “How’d you get into acting?”

  “Right to the meaty part, that’s what I like about you. Push the potatoes aside and go for the chop. Mum got me started with plays and such. Not necessarily per her ambition. It was simply a means to occupy her wildly hyperactive son.”

  Quinn’s eyebrows rose. “You? Hyper? Never say.”

  “Oh, I say. They were loads of fun, the classes and big to-dos. The kids I worked with were a peculiar lot. Most of them, like me, had behavioral issues. Others were introverts only able to put themselves out in the world by pretending to be someone else. Many of them lived it day in, day out, but it’s not in my nature to take anything so seriously, certainly not a hobby. Even now, I brush off rejection and move on to the next gig. It’s only business. There’s usually something else around the corner if you keep at it. Sometimes it’s a dud; sometimes you strike gold.” He plucked a still-green blade of grass and stuck the root end between his teeth. “Whatever. Pay me, and I’ll do whatever.”

  “Money?” She made no obvious effort to conceal her disappointment with his answer. “You do it for the money?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I’m no avid student of the arts with big Oscar-winning dreams. I was a kid who needed money, and I’m a man who still does.” He held up a finger, bidding her stay her rejoinder. “Reserve your judgment one moment while I whip up a heaping mound of perspective.”

  She bowed her head. “Fair enough. Continue.”

  “I will, thank you. Where was I? Oh, yes, money. And dreams. I did have a few of those, but they were in the kitchen, not on stage. I love a kitchen with its gadgets and wondrous smells. Don’t you just love a kitchen?”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “Right. You love libraries; I love kitchens. So, I decided I’d go to culinary school, but in the meantime made great money with the acting stuff. Most kids wait tables or wash cars to make a pound. I wore silly costumes and acted outrageous. Why give it up until I had to? At home, I drove my mum crazy. She’s a sport, though, tried every foul recipe I concocted.” He grimaced, recalling a nasty pickle and herring spread gone awry.

  “I’m beginning to pity her.”

  He laughed. “Don’t let her get wind of it. She won’t appreciate it.”

  Quinn grasped his arm with both hands. “What happened? Why didn’t you become a chef? It doesn’t sound like your mother disapproved.” She stilled. Her bright green eyes grew round. “Does it have something to do with the caretaker you mentioned earlier?” Her shoulders fell. “I’m not going to like your story, am I?”

  “Not if my own sentiments are any indication.”

  He’d done his years sulking about, drenched in selfish, unspoken disappointment and considered them well in the past. No trace of the old bitterness sprang up to re-stake its claim, but he disliked talking about it nonetheless. Not even his own mum was privy to his long-lost desire to be a master of fine cuisine. It seemed silly in retrospect.

  The lamps on the hill had lit up, bright white orbs against an indigo sky. “You’re sure you don’t want to go home? We’ve lost the warmth of the day.”

  “No, go on. I want to hear.”

  “All right.” He put a hand over the one of hers still wrapped around his biceps, resisting the impulse to flex. He’d do it for a laugh if it weren’t for the subject matter.

  “Well, let’s see. Perhaps a day or two until graduation I went to an audition with my friend, Willie, very much against my will. The role was a major part in some telly series, and the idea of joining a sitcom that might go on for years made me sick to my stomach. It still does, matter of fact.” He paused and smiled at her with little humor. “They say things happen for a reason.”

  She nodded. “Fate. Your religion as far as I can tell.”

  “Oh, I believe it right enough, and you won’t blame me a bit when I tell you why. That same day, my mum suffered a stroke. Left her partially paralyzed. It’s hard to tell it from her face, but she’s been in a wheelchair ever since. Without a father in the picture, the loss of income was a huge hit, and there’s precious little work to be had for a woman with her disability. Plus, she needed care. Forget any kind of secondary education. School doesn’t pay the bills. Quite the opposite, actually. When the callback came three days later for the part I’d auditioned for, I didn’t hesitate. When they offered me the role after my second read-through, I jumped on it. Never looked back.”

  Quinn took a deep, considering breath. “One day a producer is going to want your story.”

  “Maybe that’s why I don’t tell it.”

  “Hmm.” She patted his arm. “I’ll admit you’v
e got some compelling reasons to believe in fate.”

  “Do you have any compelling reasons not to?”

  She shrugged. “There are a thousand things I can’t fathom a reason for.”

  He imagined Blake’s affair had popped into her head, maybe even Vickie’s, but Jack had his own ideas about what fate had in mind for the two of them. The powers of the universe only delivered the possibility, however. It was up to him to make it reality.

  She seemed to brush away whatever she’d been chewing on. “But, hey, we’re talking about you, remember? I mean, it’s not what you wanted, but you can’t complain, can you? Millions of people the world over would consider it an incredibly lucky break.”

  “As did I, and like many of them, my motives were purely financial. I’ve not a single regret dangling behind me. I may be happier in a kitchen than onstage being fondled by costume designers and shouted at by directors, but I certainly don’t mean to complain. I, I mean, it’s kind of, in fact, I—”

  “Finish the sentence. You’ve come this far.”

  God love a succinct, impatient woman. “When I meet someone like you, it rankles a bit. Love what you do, right? Well, I don’t. I tolerate it, I enjoy a few of the perks, but I don’t love it and I’m afraid I get right jealous of people like you.”

  Her eruption of laughter caught him off guard. She let him go and leaned forward with her arms around her belly. The guffaws drew attention from other stragglers in the park.

  He conceded to her outburst with a couple of slow nods. “Indeed. However, I’m hardly the first of my kind. Are you familiar with Peter Ostrum?”

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m sure I’m not.”

  “Allow me to school you on a little cinematic trivia. He’s the lad from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The original, that is, circa 1971. Do you know what he does for a living?”

  “If you say chocolatier, I might go into another fit.”