by Anne Calhoun
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said, then retreated to her bedroom and closed the door.
Chapter Seven
By the time Milla finished packing, she’d recovered enough to tell Kaitlin and Elsa the part of the story she could, about the East End tour, seeing Charlie’s new pieces, making the video. She kept quiet about the sex. There wasn’t much point in telling them about something that was probably over.
She stood on the sidewalk outside the house, her backpack on her back. She’d booked a late train to Paris, preferring to get a good night’s sleep and then begin exploring in the morning. Her trip to Istanbul was broken into segments with layovers in key cities, allowing her some time in each, both to gather video for the channel and also to take notes for the articles she hoped to write.
“Got your laptop?” Kaitlin asked brightly.
Milla patted the side pocket of her backpack. “And charging cable, and extra battery, and a backup hard drive for storing videos, and a universal adapter,” she said, striving to sound as cheery as Kaitlin.
“Phone?” Elsa asked.
She held up the phone case Elsa had given her for her birthday. “And the selfie stick, and washing liquid for washing delicates in the sink, and my passport. If I’ve forgotten anything, I’ll buy it or do without.”
“He didn’t mean what he said,” Kaitlin said. “He doesn’t think you’re selling yourself.”
“He was angry, and rightfully so,” she said. “Watching the video at home is one thing. Watching it at work was terminally stupid. I was...” Her voice trailed off. Infatuated? Entranced? Falling in love?
After an awkward silence, Elsa said, “I know we pretend not to hear each other’s phone conversations, but did I hear you reading your boss the riot act?”
After she’d calmed down by rolling her clothes into perfect tubes in the Marine Corps—approved fashion, she’d called Nina on her mobile. “Yes, and she was utterly unrepentant about it. She said she couldn’t risk another gallery owner finding out and contacting Charlie. When I told her she’d probably ruined her chances, she told me better to ruin them than to not take them at all.” Milla laughed shakily. “Charlie could use her. She’d balance him out. But I was an idiot for watching the video at work.”
“He knows you didn’t mean to hurt him. He’ll settle down while you’re gone,” Elsa said, rubbing Milla’s shoulder.
Four weeks apart would be plenty of time for Charlie to cool down to the point where they could superficially be friends again. Everything would blow over, but nothing would be the same. Charlie didn’t trust easily, and he didn’t forgive betrayals. She’d screwed up, big-time, and lost both her secret, sexy lover and her friend.
“Right,” she said briskly to cover how annoyed she was with herself, the sadness she knew was going to linger for a long, long time. “I’ll stay in touch. Watch Instagram for pictures, but I’m going to go a bit off the grid. I need some time to think, too.”
Another round of hugs and she set off for the Tube station. She didn’t allow herself to look up to see if Charlie was watching.
* * *
The trip, along the Orient Express’s fabled route, was everything she’d imagined and more. Paris she fell into like an old friend’s arms, using her rather pathetic schoolgirl French to reestablish friendships with the staff at the best bakery and patisserie in her favorite arrondissement. Munich and Vienna were acquaintances and well on their way to close friends by the time she left. As vacation brain took over, she put a notice on her website and video channel that read On Hiatus Until Istanbul, posted pictures to Instagram, answered tweets and Facebook posts, but for the most part, she stayed quiet, composing only one post that fed from her website to Facebook.
Dear Readers,
I need to tell you something.
For a while now, I’ve been asking you to choose my next date. When I started, I wasn’t seeing anyone, but in the last few weeks, I haven’t being completely honest with you, or with myself. I had someone in my life, someone I never mentioned because unlike me, he values his privacy. He was a friend. A good friend. And then we became so much more than friends.
But I screwed up. Badly. Maybe unforgivably. I didn’t do it on purpose, but in this case, carelessness is worse. You’re supposed to take special care with the people you love, shelter them, protect their tender spots. I didn’t, and sometimes apologies can’t rebuild trust.
I’m not sure what will happen when I get home. I hope we can at least go back to being friends. I really hope we can be more than friends again. That’s what I want, so I’m not going to be dating for a while. I can’t say anything else, not until he’s ready. He may never be ready, and that’s fine. All I need is my friend. My best friend.
You’ll still get your daily dose of Milla. I’ve taken so many cool videos and seen so many interesting things to write about. The world we live in is full of enough beauty and joy for a thousand lifetimes, and I want to film and write about as many moments as I can and share them with you. But for the time being, I’m going to give my dating life a bit of a break.
Thanks for understanding. See you in Istanbul!
Love,
Milla
Then she sent a quick email to Charlie’s business account, because it was the only one he had.
Dear Charlie,
I apologize. I’ve drafted this email so many times, but in the end, that’s the most important thing, so I’m going to lead with it. I made a mistake—not in filming you, because you are everything I said and more—but in watching the video at work. I was careless with the only thing you asked me to respect. I’m so sorry Nina saw it, and I’m even more sorry I didn’t tell you she’d seen it.
But I made another mistake, too. I kept one secret all too faithfully, and that was the secret of how I felt about you. I was watching the video at work because—and this is the truth I’ve been trying to say to you since the morning after our first night—I want to be friends, but so much more. I can keep secrets if I need to, but I should have found a way to say, “I really like you” and “I’d like us to be more than friends.”
I should have been bold. Instead I kept secrets and thought only about being able to watch you, not whether or not you wanted to be watched, by anyone else, or even me.
I’ve uploaded the video to my private file server and deleted it from my phone. If you want me to delete it from the file server, I will. No one will ever see it again. It will be like it never existed.
But please, watch it first. Please. I’m not asking to convince you to sign with Nina. I’m asking because I hope you’ll watch it and see what I saw that night in the hot shop: an artist blazing with passion and confidence and enthusiasm. But if you tell me you want me to delete it, it’s gone.
She agonized over the closing. Then she used the one word she knew was true, and would always be true.
Yours,
Milla
* * *
Budapest was a stranger, and she enjoyed the stranger-in-a-strange-land experience so much that on a whim she switched to the southern route, taking the train to Belgrade, and from there to Sofia. She saved the bulk of her on-the-ground time for those cities, compiling hours and hours of footage wandering their cobbled streets and squares, sipping coffee in outdoor cafés, touring museums and historical sights, but mostly getting to know their particular flavor, asking locals for restaurant recommendations, bunking down in hostels to save her money for food, sights and late nights writing.
Over the next week she occasionally checked her email, expecting a two-word note from Charlie—Delete it. But the email never came, and she slowly came to accept that, best case scenario, they’d have it out when she got back. Worst case scenario, she’d lost her lover and her friend.
No. She wouldn’t allow herself to accept that possibility. She’d won Charlie’s trust once. She could do it again. When she got home, she’d tell him in person how she felt, and ask for a second chance.
The
final stage from Sofia to Istanbul’s Sirkeci terminal was a bewildering combination of border crossings and transfers from the train to the bus to accommodate track work in both Bulgaria and Turkey. She spent most of the trip putting together a teaser trailer for the website and YouTube channel, mostly images, a few video clips, a thought or two. The plan was to end the video with a montage filmed on her arrival in Istanbul. When she’d finished as much as she could, she spent the rest of the time looking out the window at the scenery. They crossed the Golden Horn, the strait separating Europe and Asia, and braked in a slot at Sirkeci.
Gathering up her luggage, she made her way off the bus and into the bustling, echoing terminal to take pictures of the Orient Express café and waiting rooms, then the platforms sheltered by grand metal roofs. The front facade was three oversize stories tall, the windows shaped like minarets, topped with a long dome and two towers housing stern, square clocks, with a glorious stained-glass window set above two enormous doors. She walked to the metal barriers preventing the city’s wild traffic from parking directly in front of the station, shrugged out of her backpack and dug inside for her selfie stick.
She’d done it, pieced together a trip along the routes of the Orient Express. All that was left was to film the final montage.
Camera attached, she tapped the video button and started recording. She didn’t say anything, just let her slow circle capture everything. The brick facade; the car and pedestrian traffic; the cloud-drifted sky; the metro train pulling up; Charlie; the facade; a family holding hands as they crossed the street; a woman in a head scarf, a Burberry shirt, skinny jeans and Tory Burch flats, a clutch tucked under her arm as she thumbed away at her phone; the Bosporus in the background; the facade; Charlie...
She stopped, staring up at the camera. Centered in the screen was Charlie, sitting on his rucksack, wearing jeans, his boots, a white T-shirt and his army jacket with the collar popped. Elbows folded on his knees, he peered up at her from his seated position, his face fond, exasperated, hopeful, uncertain.
Couldn’t be. Charlie rarely left the East End, let alone London, the United Kingdom, much less Europe. Okay, so she was barely in Asia, but she was in Asia. It was a trick of the camera and the light, another scruffy traveler who happened to look like the man of her dreams.
Camera still positioned above her, she peered over her shoulder to see with her own eyes.
It was Charlie. In real life. In Istanbul.
“Hi,” he said.
She was vague aware of the selfie stick tilting in a wide arc as she turned to face him, even more vaguely aware that the wild, blurry video would have to be edited, and then all she was aware of was him. He straightened, approached her, then shoved his hands in his pockets, as if he wasn’t sure he was welcome in Istanbul, much less in her life.
Oh, Charlie.
The selfie stick swayed wildly, picking who knew what angle of the roof of the train station and the sky, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “I’m so glad.”
His arms tightened around her waist, strong and possessive. Not caring who might see. “Me, too,” he said, and kissed her. She thought his grip was possessive. His kiss was fierce, filled with the knowledge of what it meant to love and lose, to get a second chance and to give one.
She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. “No more secrets between us,” she said breathlessly when he let her up for air. “I’m falling for you. Hard.”
“Deal,” he said immediately, his eyes serious. “Because I’m falling for you, just as hard.”
That sounded very promising. “How did you get here?”
“Plane,” he said succinctly. “London to Istanbul in under four hours.”
“Well, if you like comfort, convenience and speed, you can’t beat planes,” she said with a smile.
“I’d argue on the comfort,” he said, scratching his head. “Bloody sardine can.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Kaitlin and Elsa kept me up-to-date on your plans,” he said. “Every third word out of their mouths was Milla. I watched the video.”
“You did?”
“I couldn’t tell you to delete it without watching it,” he said gruffly. “I wanted to see what you saw. You look at the world differently than other people. You make them see it the way you see it. I wanted, I dunno, to see myself the way you saw me. When I did, I realized that my ears and eyebrow weren’t the only things that grew closed after Chelsea left me. I burrowed into the East End like a fox running from the hounds.”
“You were badly hurt,” she said. “It takes time to recover from something like that.”
“Less time than I took,” he said wryly. “Chelsea opened doors for me when I was all talent, no vision. I didn’t know if I could open those doors myself, and then I stopped painting, started working with heat. I wouldn’t even admit to myself that I wanted what Nina Darmayne could offer—a chance at recognition. Respect. Earned myself, for my work.”
“It’s tough to put yourself out there,” she said.
“I made it tougher than it needed to be.” He looked at her. “The least I can do is admit to myself that I want that. Respect. Recognition. Money. I want all of that, and more.”
“Good. You deserve all of those things. You’ve earned them.”
“Nina’s arranging an installation. She said to tell you it’s the first thing on your to-do list when you get back.”
“I’m still working for her?”
He squinted at her, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “She seems to think you have good instincts and the spine to back them up.”
Milla laughed. “Great. Couldn’t be happier. Um...when do you have to be back?”
“I haven’t taken a vacation in...well, since our family holidays in Bournemouth.” He looked around the street. “Istanbul looks pretty cool.”
“I’ve got four days scheduled here before I fly home,” she said.
“Four jam-packed days?”
“There’s five thousand years of history in this city,” she protested before he kissed her again. “We’ll barely scratch the surface of Istanbul in four days!”
“Nina said she’d give you another week off. I thought we could take the train, or a boat, to Venice, maybe see some of the Murano glass facilities.”
“I’d love that,” she said, and hugged him again, for everyone to see, because she could.
The selfie stick still dangled from her hand. Charlie hoisted it until their faces appeared on the screen, and looked straight into the camera. “Got any ideas as to how we share this secret with the world?” he said.
“I think I can arrange something,” Milla said, and pressed an exuberant kiss to his bristly cheek.
Epilogue
Venice was everything she’d hoped for, and more.
They spent their first day taking in the major tourist attractions, riding a vaporetto along the Grand Canal, touring St. Mark’s Basilica and the Palazzo Ducale, ending by surveying St. Mark’s Square, crowded with hapless tourists besieged by seagulls, from the balcony. An early-morning visit showed the city’s softer, quieter side. The rest of the day they got hopelessly lost in Venice’s back alleys, exploring smaller churches and local shops, surviving on gelato and pasta, drifting down serene, beautiful streets paved with worn stone. The buildings were charmingly lacking in uniformity, brick shouldered next to stucco and regally peeling paint, with arched windows, shutters and window boxes creating a distinct sense of style. Everywhere the water shifted and lapped in the canals, reflecting a dreamy light over the city.
“I’ve never seen a place fall apart with more charm,” Milla said. “It’s spectacular.”
“So’s the company,” Charlie said, and took her hand once again.
The next day they took a vaporetto to Murano, where Charlie had arranged, through a friend of a friend, to meet up with local glass artists and talk shop. Milla visited the churches, then picked
Charlie up for a tour of the glass museum that ended with an invitation to dinner with Charlie’s new friends. They caught the vaporetto back to the main island, then decided to splurge on a late-night gondola ride.
The gondola swayed alarmingly as Charlie stepped inside and held out his hand to help Milla into the boat. Once inside she quickly lowered her bum to the seat, and the gondolier poled away from the dock, humming under his breath.
“I’m stuffed,” she said as she pulled out her phone, took a picture of the glorious sunset over the Grand Canal and started a new post. Change of plans. We’re going home via Venice and Madrid. I’ve got so many stories to share, but for now, enjoy the sunset in Venice. “And also a bit tipsy.”
“It was a really good red,” Charlie agreed. He arranged the pillows behind his head and tucked Milla under his arm. Overhead the setting sun beamed down on the canals, coating the bridges in glorious reds and oranges. “What’s the hit count up to?”
“Fifty-seven thousand,” she said. “I can’t believe it. None of my previous videos got more than ten thousand hits. CNN picked it up. CNN!”
“Guess that’s what happens when you post a video of you dropping a selfie stick in front of the Sirkeci station. And all this time you thought it was about going cool places.”
“People love reunion videos,” she said. “It’s a universal feeling, reuniting with someone when you’re uncertain about the result.”
“We’re not doing it again. You’ll have to get hits the old-fashioned way.”
“Going places and recording myself?”
“Exactly. Or us.” Charlie took the phone from her and held it at arm’s length. The picture he took was rather serious, no smiles, no coy glances, just her nestled into the curve of his shoulder, him with an outrageous Ewan McGregor—between—films beard. But the look of naked, simple joy in their eyes said it better than any words.
She posted the shot, then Charlie tried to wrestle the phone from her hand. “Just one more,” she said and held up her phone. The gondolier bent low and photobombed them, then crooned something in Italian.
