by Tara Jones
I stood for a long time by the wrought iron lamp post next to the parking lot at the closed library until I was to numb to feel my hands and toes anymore.
A rational voice in my head told me sensibly what I had known deep down all along: It wasn’t meant to last. All relationships have an ending, and it never would have worked between Eleanor and me anyway.
We were too different in all kinds of way.
Besides, she wasn’t really my type anyway, I told myself.
Eleanor was short, curvy, and liked to dress in knee-length tweed skirts with matching jackets with suede elbow patches. She worked as a librarian, although she most certainly didn’t have to, since she was the daughter of Walter Wyndham, one of the richest and most powerful people in Britain. That made her rich, rich beyond my imagination.
We have absolutely nothing in common, I concluded with a sigh.
I came from an average middle-class family and grew up in Surrey in a semi-detached house, which constantly needed to be renovated. My childhood didn’t include an indoor swimming pool, butlers, or security guards.
I went to college to study art; she had two master degrees, one in English literature and one in Victorian history.
She was rich, educated, and sophisticated.
And I’m not, I thought.
But despite reaching this logical conclusion, another part of me, a childish and naïve voice, indoctrinated by Disney movies from an early age and sugary Hollywood films later on, whispered that there was always, always a chance for our relationship to work, no matter what.
The Romeo and Juliet story.
That love was stronger than conventions. That love could conquer all.
But both Romeo and Juliet died in the final act, didn’t they?
But this is the reality. And it wouldn’t have worked, I reminded myself. We’re simply too different and she had decided to leave, after all.
I tasted the bittersweet truth on my lips.
Finally, I decided to go home. Being lonely was one thing, standing in the rain outside a closed library and being pathetic was quite another.
Besides, sooner or later one of the customers from Waitrose that shared the parking lot next to the library would eventually call the police and tell them that there was a strange-looking man standing next to the parking lot, possibly with rape intentions or at least nefarious plans in mind that may or may not include car theft.
I could do without ending up at the police station for awkward questioning, I concluded and left the park, walking home slowly.
I climbed the worn staircase to my flat, my hand gliding along the metal handle, which had been repainted several times, but you could still see the naked steel shine through at some places.
I reached flat ‘39’ and put the key to the keyhole, thinking for the hundredth time that I should really get a proper security door like the rest of my more precautious and wiser neighbours. The cost would probably be covered by a lower insurance fee, I speculated, but the thought left my mind and went back to the depth of my consciousness as soon as I stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind me.
My flat rested almost in darkness except for the light from the small IKEA lamp in the window, which was on timer and shone with a weak light under its orange-yellow plastic screen.
I hung my wet jacket on the same crook by the door where I always keep it and headed towards the kitchenette. I put on the kettle to make a cup of tea, in an attempt to defrost my poor fingers and hopefully avoid a massive cold, which most likely would sneak upon me after my meaningless wandering in the rain.
It wasn’t until I was halfway across the small sitting room that I realized that someone was sitting in the sofa in the shadows.
“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed wildly. “You scared the life out of me!”
“Evening, Peter,” Kithira said calmly in her East European accent, with a hint of an amused smile over that fact that she had managed to scare me witless.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted out, too shocked to be polite.
“Waiting for you, of course.”
I felt somewhat violated by the fact that she had simply entered my home without my knowledge or agreement. Still, I automatically went over to the kitchenette and turned the kettle on.
“Hasn’t anybody ever told you that it’s quite rude to enter someone’s house without an invitation?” I asked.
“Yes, they have,” she replied, not catching the sarcasm in my question, “On several occasions, as a matter of fact.”
“How did you get in?” I asked.
I had never given Eleanor a spare key to my flat.
“I picked the lock,” Kithira said casually. “You really should consider get a safety door. Even a child can pick that lock. I don’t even understand why you bother to lock it at all.”
Because usually I don’t have to worry about finding Russian bodyguards waiting for me in my sitting room, I commented silently as the water started to boil.
Without thinking about it I made two cups of tea and gave one of them to Kithira after I had asked if she took milk or sugar.
“What do you want?” I said and sank down on the uncomfortable sofa next to her.
My flat was filled with IKEA furniture in various bland colours and had white-painted walls. On the wall opposite the sofa there was a series of framed photos of sea shells that one of my ex-girlfriends had put up several years ago in an attempt ‘to make it more cozy’. I never really like the pictures and the cheap white plastic frames that had turned an unappealing yellow colour with time, but I hadn’t bothered to take them down once we broke up.
Like so many other things in my life, it was there just out of habit and not by choice.
“Eleanor is leaving London,” Kithira said.
“Yes, I know.” I said and tried not to sigh, “She told me...”
I already wondered where this conversation was going.
“We’re going to the Seychelles, until things have calmed down a bit. After that we’ll probably move to the States for a while. Maybe New York or L.A.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, still not understanding why she told me this.
Kithira watched me in silence sipping her tea, while she made me more and more uncomfortable. The fact that she was attractive in a dangerous kind of way that made me nervous didn’t make it easier to bear her dark eyes. The silence seemed to stretch in between us.
“You’re an idiot, Peter,” she said to me at last.
“I’m a what?”
Of everything she could possibly have said, that wasn’t on the list of what I had expected.
“What did Eleanor tell you?” she asked.
“That it wasn’t safe for her to stay in London. And then she told me that she was leaving,” I explained and added in a carefully guarded tone that I tried to make as unemotional as I could, “Kithira, she broke up with me.”
“No, I don’t believe that.”
“Er, yes?” I said, “I know she did, because I was there.”
Kithira sat back and leaned her chin against her palm. She wore her hair in a tight braid as always and in the weak light her skin was the colour of dark bronze. She tilted her head slightly to one side, studying me quietly.
“Do you love her?” Kithira asked.
I was so taken aback by the direct question that I couldn’t meet her eyes.
“I thought I did,” I said at last, inspecting the framed pictures on the wall.
I really should take those pictures down, I thought distracted. They’re pretty ghastly.
“Know this, Peter Thompson. I’ve known Eleanor since she was eighteen and I’ve never seen her fall in love,” Kithira said slowly, forcing my attention back to her. “…Until now,” she added to my vast surprise.
I nearly spilled hot tea all over myself and the sofa before I recovered.
“I think you’re wrong,” I said softly.
Kithira gave me a level look.
“I’m neve
r wrong,” she replied, completely neutral.
At first I thought she was joking, but then I remembered that Kithira never joked. I mumbled something vague in response, while trying to make sense of the conversation.
“We’re leaving from Heathrow on Friday at 11:30,” Kithira said and interrupted my thoughts. She smoothly produced a thin envelope from her dark canvas shoulder bag. “If you want to come with us, I’ve booked you a ticket. Think about it.”
She placed the envelope on my glass coffee table and rose. I followed her to the dark hallway.
“And Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“Your passport has expired, so I took the liberty to get you a new one. It’s in the envelope together with a copy of your itinerary.”
“You did… what?” Of all the things she said, this made less sense. “You’ve made me a false passport?”
“No, of course not,” Kithira said, her brows furrowed and her tone sounded almost a little bit hurt. “It’s quite authentic, I assure you.”
“So you made a faked authentic passport for me?” I asked her with an ironical smile.
“Yes,” she replied, clearly relieved that I finally understood.
“Kithira,” I said, just as she placed her hand on the door knob, “Who are you, really?”
I saw her shoulders tense slightly and at first she didn’t answer me.
I knew that she was Eleanor’s bodyguard and unfortunately I knew from firsthand experience that she was highly trained in killing people. But breaking into people’s houses? Faking passports? And mysteriously being able to gather information about everything from my work, my ex, where I lived, all the way down to which kind of tea that I preferred?
Surely that is outside the normal work description for a bodyguard?
Kithira turned around slowly, facing me. She was just a little bit shorter that I was, and suddenly in the dark, narrow hallway I felt myself react to the closeness of her body and I nearly took a step back.
There was something about her natural dominance and slightly dangerous streak that made me almost helplessly want to submit to her. And of course it didn’t exactly help that, although Kithira preferred to dress in bulky black hoodies and army trousers, she had a lean and fit body that many women who spent endless of hours on a Stairmaster could only dream about achieving.
It was disturbingly clear that Eleanor’s dominance training had unexpected side effects on me, making me willing to yield so easily. For a wild moment I wished desperately that Kithira would grab me and force me up against the wall while she tore my clothes off. The mental picture in my head made me instantly stiffen and suddenly I was extremely relieved o the light in the hallway was rather dim.
“I’ve not always worked for Miss Eleanor,” Kithira said cryptically.
It seemed that she wanted to say something else, but she didn’t.
“I see…” I said, my voice slightly husky, while I tried to gain control myself.
“See you at Heathrow on Friday.”
“I’ll think about it…” I said slowly as Kithira opened the door and left.
She took a couple of brisk steps before she hesitated suddenly and turned back.
And in one swift motion she gripped the collar of my designer knitted cardigan and pushed me up against the wall, just like I had envisioned.
I inhaled sharply in a combination of surprise and raw lust, which I could not deny. She was so close I could smell the scent of her, a combination of some sort of sport soap and an alluring exotic undertone that matched her appearance.
For a wild second I thought she would either kiss me or hurt me, but instead she whispered softly in my ear, “Peter, come with us.”
Her accent was more distinct than before and I could feel her breath against my skin. I desperately wanted her to touch me and press her lean body against my hard erection, but regrettably she didn’t.
Instead, she let go of me so abruptly, I nearly fell over.
Before I knew it she left. Without a second glance she rapidly walked down the stairs, and I heard the front door to the flat compartment open and close far beneath me, while I stood there, confused and slightly breathless, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
It was quite impossible.
I spent the following days wondering about what to do and found myself returning to the white envelope that Kithira had left behind.
The passport really looked incredibly authentic, and I recognized the photo of myself from a series of photos that we had taken at work for the website to ‘build credibility and a personal connection with the customers’, which an over-paid consultant had proposed to increase ‘the branding of our company’. The consultant’s flowery description had made me feel like Professor Snape when he’s watching Harry Potter’s sugar-coated memories. ‘I may vomit’, indeed.
But in the end, I called my sister in Leicester and told her I was going away for a while. I said I had come to realize that I needed some peace and quiet to recover from my accident.
My older sister was a child psychologist and said that she fully understood. She kind-heartedly lectured me for more than half an hour about the effects of post-traumatic stress and made me promise to keep in touch before she would let me hang up.
I should have called my boss as well, but instead I cowardly sent him an email. I lied and told him that it was possible that I suffered from post-traumatic stress and that I had been advised to go away for an unforeseen future, and that I would like to hand in my resignation, so that ‘a better candidate could continue my work without the company suffering my absence’.
It was kind of true and I was sure Kithira would have no problem backing up my story if I asked her to. Most likely she would be delighted in creating false psychological files and having someone hack into NHS records to do God-knows-what.
I packed a small backpack, not really knowing what to bring or for how long I would be gone, and I left the keys to my flat to the crazy cat lady on the first floor, who repeatedly promised that she would water my flower twice a week, although I told her several times I didn’t have any plants and all I wanted was for her to give the key to my sister.
My thoughts were in a perfect turmoil as I left for Heathrow.
I had no idea of what I was getting myself into and I was sincerely wondering if I had gone mad, leaving my flat, job, and life behind following a whim.
I also worried about what would happen if the British customs found out that the passport I was carrying was forged, not to mention how Eleanor would react when I showed up unannounced at the gate. And a small part of me wondered about what Kithira would say too, although I stifled that thought immediately.
In retrospect I shouldn’t have worried. My passport worked flawlessly and I checked in my small luggage and went to the gate that said ‘Mahe Island, departure time 11:30’.
Kithira saw me first. She leaned closer to Eleanor.
“Look who is here,” she said.
At first, I thought Eleanor was going to say something composed or cool, but then for a moment her self-composure wavered, and to my surprise she practically threw herself around my neck. Eleanor wasn’t a light little waif of a girl and it felt remarkably good to lift her from the floor in a childish manoeuvre before I kissed her and held her close to me.
I put her down to the floor gently, before I made an even larger fool out of her and myself.
“Peter, what are you doing here?” she said laughing, her ice-blue eyes glittering.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I got an invitation from Kithira to join you,” I said. “She also told me I was an idiot if I didn’t come with you,” I added.
“Well, it is true,” Kithira commented neutrally in her East European accent, but I could see the smallest of smiles at the corner of her lips.
She was pleased about my decision.
“I mean… If you want me to come with you, of course,” I said, suddenly feeling strangely insecure, which I tried to hide behind
a short laugh.
“Of course I want you to come with us!” Eleanor said with a broad smile.
“Only an idiot would ask a question like that,” Kithira concluded and rolled her eyes.
We travelled business class to the Seychelles.
“First class is for newly married couples and… what do you call them? Ah ‘pretenders’ I believe?” Kithira explained to me.
Business class was nice and I felt quite pampered, but to be honest I would happily have travelled in the cargo space if I had to.
We landed on Mahe Island and from there we took a helicopter to Petit Praslin, a private island owned by Eleanor.
To my surprise Kithira spend the entire helicopter trip with her eyes tightly shut, mumbling to herself in her own language. It was quite clear that she didn’t like the small helicopter and the hour long shaky ride it took for us to get to the island, but I thoroughly enjoyed watching the numerous small islands underneath us with their ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ granite cliffs and palm trees.
The island could only be described as spectacular.
Crystal clear turquoise water, a beach with sand so white it hurt my eyes, and lush rainforest and palm trees. It felt like I had stepped into a posh travelling brochure and for a second I almost wanted to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming.
“Wow,” I said, not caring if I sounded like Keanu Reeves or not, when I saw the luxurious one-story house in brushed white with its rounded swimming pool and parasols, tucked in neatly between high granite cliffs.
“Do you like it?” Eleanor asked walking next to me.
She was dressed in a thin linen suit, a wide brim straw hat, and red sun glasses in a 1950s design that matched her hair.
“Yeah,” I said, still pretty gobsmacked by the view. The only thing that was missing would be a couple of dolphins jumping by the water front or a colourful tropical bird flying over the house, “So, how long are we staying again?”
