Magic Sometimes Happens

by Margaret James

‘No, trying out some samples. Fan wants feedback for a magazine.’

  ‘The eye-shadow’s well cool. No streaks, no lines, no creases. It’s subtly metallic but not trashy bright. The lipstick’s horrible. That kind of scarlet isn’t good on everyone and it’s not good on you. But it might suit me. I’ll go and try it, shall I? You can tell me what you think?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Do you need a sealer? Does it bleed?’

  ‘It doesn’t bleed.’

  But my heart was bleeding because Patrick clearly wasn’t coming and I could have cried and cried.

  On Sunday morning, while we were having breakfast and I had got my hopes up high as skyscrapers all over again – today, I thought, he’s sure to come – Ben happened to observe that we would not be seeing Pat because he had to watch his children all weekend.

  ‘Hey, you don’t take sugar in your coffee,’ Tess said, frowning as she watched me spooning it into my mug. ‘It’s very bad for you.’

  ‘I fancy something bad for me today.’

  ‘So be a little more adventurous? Sugar, it’s just empty carbohydrate. All it will do is make you fat and spotty and give you diabetes. I read about it in a magazine. Let’s go shopping, shall we – get a little healthy exercise?’

  On Monday afternoon, while we were at the MoA and getting healthy exercise and Tess was buying casual clothes for Ben in Gap and Urban Outfitters – she was taking his restructuring programme very seriously indeed, but wasn’t getting any real designer stuff for him just yet because she didn’t want to frighten him – her mobile rang.

  Maybe it was Ben to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner?

  That morning, he’d gone into college early for a meeting with the dean – or that was where he’d told us he was going, anyway – smelling like he’d fallen in a vat of aftershave. I’d wondered if the dean was twenty-five and blonde and sexy. I sort of guessed Tess might be wondering, too.

  ‘You mean this week?’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Well, I suppose so. Yeah, it’s very exciting. We’ll see you later, shall we? Yeah, I love you, too.’

  ‘What was that about?’ I asked.

  ‘Ben’s going to New York tomorrow. He needs to see his publisher.’ She slipped her phone into her bag and then glanced up at me. She looked apologetic. ‘I’ll feel very mean about it, leaving you to entertain yourself, but he wants me to go.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ I said. ‘Tess, you’re his wife.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m Mrs Fairfax Three.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m wondering now, if he wants company, maybe I should say take Mrs Fairfax One or Two? One lives in Virginia and Two is in New Jersey. One of them could go with him, perhaps?’

  ‘But don’t you want to go?’

  ‘It’ll probably be quite boring, listening to Ben and Mr Publisher droning on about Ben’s books. I’m not an intellectual, as you know. But One and Two are intellectuals, and Ben and they are still good friends, whatever that might mean. They’re still in contact, anyway, especially Ben and Mrs Fairfax Two. She’s his literary executor.’

  ‘Why is she his literary executor?’

  ‘Oh, she’s a professor in some college. So she knows all about that sort of stuff.’

  ‘She might, but you’re Ben’s wife,’ I said. ‘I think it should be you.’

  ‘But she’s welcome, Rosie. The whole thing sounds a total waste of time and energy. He sends her copies of all his paperwork and emails, photographs, the lot, so she can keep them in a special archive and write his authorised biography, that’s when the time is right. I mean, is he up himself, or what?’

  ‘You mean every letter, every email, this woman gets a copy?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he told me.’

  ‘The personal stuff as well?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Tess looked almost tearful. ‘The more I think about it, the more I wonder if this Ben-and-me thing was a terrible mistake. I think I’ll tell him I’m not going to New York.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Tess,’ I scolded briskly, no doubt sounding like my mother telling off a juvenile delinquent who was up before the bench for stealing fags from newsagents. ‘New York City – Bloomingdale’s and Barneys, think of it – Ben’s Amex Gold and Saks Fifth Avenue, a marriage made in heaven!’

  ‘You might have a point.’

  When I mentioned Barneys and Saks Fifth Avenue, Tess brightened up a little. But she was not as excited as I thought she ought to be. ‘Tess, what’s the matter? Ben’s previous wives, they left because their marriages went wrong. Or he left them – whatever. You and he, you like each other, love each other, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I know, and yeah, I sort of love him. But I wonder – oh, it’s probably nothing. You think you’ll be all right here by yourself?’

  ‘Of course I shall. I’ll go to the Institute of Arts, to some museums. I’ll go and see the Capitol.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tess shrugged. ‘The Capitol – yeah, right, that will be thrilling. Listen, Rosie, you don’t need to do stuff on your own. Why don’t you ring Patrick?’

  How could she have said his name like that, with no warning, with no lead-up, without giving me a chance to sort my face out, organise my casual response so it would sound as if I wasn’t bothered one way or the other?

  ‘W-why would I ring Pat?’ I managed to croak at last.

  ‘He’s really missing Lexie. So I expect he would be glad to take you out to dinner. Or at least meet up with you for coffee. I’m sure he would enjoy your company.’

  ‘You mean I’d be a sort of babysitter while his best mate Ben is out of town?’

  ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it,’ said Tess. She looked at me. So had she guessed? No, how could she guess, when inscrutability’s my superpower? ‘Ben’s so worried about him,’ she continued. ‘He’s never been a talker, but nowadays it’s like he’s an elective mute or something. When they meet up for a beer, he hardly says a word.’

  He probably doesn’t get a chance, I thought, what with Ben and his relentless bragging about foreign rights and big, fat royalties, me, me, me, me, me.

  ‘You’re so good with people, Rosie. Everybody likes you, tells you stuff. Ben is doing his best to help Pat deal with all the Lexie fallout. But, like I just told you, he’s not getting very far. Maybe you could get him to open up a bit?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Good girl – and you know what, talking might help you as well, perhaps? The Charlie stuff, I mean. You ought to talk.’

  ‘I’m not discussing it with Pat!’

  ‘But you could talk to me.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Yeah, why don’t you? Listen, we’ll be back in time to take you to the airport, see you off.’

  ‘Okay, Tess – that’s fine.’

  ‘Okay it’s fine that you’ll be on your own and okay you’ll call Pat?’

  ‘Tess, why don’t you go to New York City, burn some plastic, stop fretting about Mrs Fairfax One and Mrs Fairfax Two and Ben and Pat and me?’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ she said. ‘But I still think—’

  ‘Let’s go and get a coffee. We could have some chocolate muffins, too. Get fat and spotty, shall we? Or get a sugar rush, at any rate?’

  What choice did I have?

  This was a gift from some kind fairy, and it’s rude and mean to turn down gifts. The minute Tess and Ben went off to catch their plane to John F Kennedy, I rang Patrick Riley.

  He didn’t seem surprised to hear from me, so maybe he’d been warned I’d be in touch? But was he pleased? I couldn’t tell. At least he didn’t cut me off. He didn’t say he had to go and see a student, give a lecture, eat a bagel, snap some gum.

  He asked what I’d been doing with myself since he had seen me last. He seemed to listen while I told him I’d been to the MoA with Tess about a dozen times and I was all shopped out, something I had never thought would happen to somebody like me.

  ‘You might be an enthusiast but you’re not yet an addict?’ he sugg
ested.

  ‘You could well be right.’ But Tess was definitely addicted, I continued. She could never, ever get enough of going to the MoA. She started hyperventilating when we drove into the parking lot. She developed cyborg laser vision and her Amex card began to glow.

  ‘She strides around the place as if she’s on a mission to save Planet Retail,’ I told Pat. ‘She’s the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the MoA, the super-customer who’s armed and dangerous with an arsenal of super-cards. She should get a Purple Heart for courage in the face of overwhelming shopping opportunities. Or free pizza on demand, at least.’

  He laughed at that. It was a real laugh. It wasn’t forced. I’d stake my life on it. It was the laugh I’d heard when Tess was telling us about restructuring Ben, and it made me feel all warm inside.

  ‘How’s that foot of yours?’ he asked me.

  ‘It’s much better, thank you.’

  ‘You’re walking normally again?’

  ‘I am indeed – well, almost normally.’

  ‘You get around okay?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So you could take a ride downtown, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, that might be possible.’

  ‘Maybe you could call a cab? Come meet me for a coffee sometime?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I conceded. ‘When would be good for you?’

  ‘I’d have to check my schedule. But I figure there must be a window someplace.’

  Goodness, were we flirting?

  Ten or fifteen minutes later, we arranged to meet when he had finished work the following day and spent time with his children, who he said he saw most early evenings for an hour or two.

  So I would be rendezvousing with Professor Riley in a downtown coffee shop at seven on Wednesday evening. Just how many hours away was that? How many minutes? I started calculating – hours, minutes, seconds. There were far too many seconds. If I counted seconds, it was much too long to wait.

  PATRICK

  What did we talk about?

  I don’t exactly know. I listened to her voice, is all, and thought how it would be just perfect for my GPS.

  As she spoke, I analysed its tones and cadences. I heard it rise and fall, decided it was sometimes clear and crisp as a cold Minnesota winter morning. But it somehow managed to be dark and smouldering too, with the promise of a fire of scented pinecones on December nights …

  This was crazy. I was crazy. After all, I was so busy work-wise, setting up a whole new research programme, finding graduate students who could work on it and trying to get funding from industry and commerce.

  You don’t have the time for complications in your life, I told myself. You should call and cancel, say you have a meeting or you need to see a student or your children. Or your wife …

  Sometime I had to see my wife and try to sort stuff out, not in an attorney’s office or a court of law, but in somewhere neutral like a Starbucks, somewhere semi-public where we’d both have to behave.

  Lex was being awkward about access to the kids, complaining that she had a ton of stuff to do around about half five, which of course was my best time to see them – after I could get away from work, and after they had finished school and pre-school, but before they went to bed. She announced she couldn’t be expected to deliver Joe and Poll to the apartment any time it suited me.

  ‘When would be convenient, then?’ I asked, when she called me up to talk about it. Or I should say lay it on the line.

  ‘Patrick, don’t you take that tone with me.’

  ‘Oh, what tone is that?’

  ‘You know – sarcastic, flippant. If you want this access thing to work, you must co-operate. My attorney says …’

  I let her quote her legal team for several tedious minutes.

  Then I asked what time would suit her complicated schedule of beauty parlour treatments, appointments with her personal shopper, therapist, masseuse?

  I let her squawk at me again for being so facetious. Then I agreed to fetch the kids from school (Joe) and Angie (Polly), bring them back to the apartment where Lex would collect them at half six, that’s after they had dinner.

  No additive-rich shakes, no chicken fingers and definitely no fries, some fresh fruit and salad every day, green vegetables and carrot sticks – yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it.

  ‘Oh, and Pat, a couple other things …’

  As she rambled on, I thought, I loved this woman once. But now I didn’t even like my wife, for everything about her grated – voice, appearance, manner, attitude. Most everything she said seemed mean and vengeful, like she thought I should be punished. You beat up on your dog, you have to tell yourself the dog deserves a beating, or where does it leave you?

  ‘So, half six,’ said Lexie, winding up her monologue. ‘I’ll expect them to have eaten dinner and be in their outdoor things and waiting in the lobby for me. Or it might be Stephen fetching them some evenings, that’s if I’m delayed.’

  ‘Lex, it will be you,’ I said. ‘I’m not about to hand my children over to some stranger. So until you come fetch Joe and Polly, I mean from the apartment, they will remain with me.’

  ‘You and Stephen ought to meet, be adult and civilised about this situation.’

  ‘I ought to flatten him.’

  ‘Patrick, that’s the sort of crazy talk nobody wants to hear, and if you go on being so obstreperous, my attorney says—’

  I’d had enough and disconnected.

  ROSIE

  I was far too early – about an hour early, actually.

  I ordered a black coffee. But I was so nervous, so wound up, to me it smelled and tasted like soot dissolved in vinegar, even with three sugars in it, and I couldn’t bring myself to drink it.

  Then, at last, he came.

  I watched him as he walked in through the door and as he looked around for me. He was frowning slightly and seemed a little puzzled, as if he had forgotten why he’d come. But instead of finding this alarming or insulting, I found it most endearing. I watched him with increasing pleasure, waiting for his gaze to light on me. When at last it did, he smiled, came up. ‘Hi, Rosie,’ he began.

  ‘Hello.’ Why did he have to say my name? Now my heart was acting like a teenager on heat, thumping like it wanted to burst out of my chest.

  ‘You been here long?’ he asked.

  ‘No, only a few minutes,’ I replied, or rather lied.

  ‘How’s the foot?’

  ‘Oh, it’s absolutely fine today!’ I told him breezily. No doubt I sounded like the captain of the sixth form netball team.

  It was colder in the evenings now. The greens of summer were gradually bowing out and almost every tree was turning russet, red or gold. As Pat sat down, he pulled a black wool scarf – perhaps it was cashmere – from round his neck.

  Who buys your clothes, I asked him, but only in my head. I rather hope it’s you and not your wife. I hope you choose. But whoever does it has good taste. A little safe, a little too conservative, perhaps. You could dress ten years younger, which would be closer to your actual age. But on the whole you’ll definitely do …

  ‘I’ll go grab a cappuccino. May I get you anything – some cookies, chocolate, candy? Rosie?’

  ‘What?’ Just stop all this, I told myself. Stop speculating and come back to reality! ‘What did you just ask me?’

  ‘How about a brownie or more coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, I’m okay.’

  He went up to the counter and came back with his coffee and a muffin. ‘Do you have plans this evening?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, I’m doing nothing in particular. So I’m very open to suggestion.’ But this was not a date, for heaven’s sake. We were mere acquaintances, mere friends of friends, just meeting up for coffee.

  ‘What kinds of things do you like to do?’ he asked.

  I watched him as he peeled the greaseproof paper off his muffin, carefully, unhurriedly, not tearing it at all, and I wished he was peeling my underwear off me. I like to be with you, I thought. ‘What could we do at
such short notice?’

  ‘Well … ’

  He was looking at me now and I could see his dark brown gaze was serious but friendly. I thought he probably looked at all his students in the same approachable but neutral manner. ‘Do you like ballet?’

  Please don’t look at me, I thought. When you look at me I want to kiss you and that would be a very, very stupid thing to do.

  ‘I’m not a fan,’ I said. ‘I can see it’s clever and I know all dancers have to train and train and train. But to me it looks like posers prancing round and showing us their pants.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Panties, I suppose you call them – knickers.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He smiled, but it was the sort of weary, rueful smile you give a tiresome child. ‘Music, then – do you like music?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘What kind of music?’

  ‘Anything, as long as it’s not really weird – long silences or people dropping pebbles in a box and calling it a soul concerto, idiotic stuff like that. I like something with a melody.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve come across the pebbles in the box concerto, so it can’t have made its debut in the USA. What about American composers – Aaron Copland, George and Ira Gershwin, Jerome Kern – they do anything for you?’

  ‘I don’t know their stuff.’

  ‘It’s great. I love it. You should make its acquaintance.’

  He stirred his foaming cappuccino, round and round and round, dissolving all the chocolate dust, or most of it. There was a little smudge of chocolate powder on his index finger and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I longed to lick it off.

  ‘So – shall we go listen to something with a melody tonight?’ he added, picking up his cup and drinking, dotting foam along his upper lip. It made him look completely edible.

  I will come and listen to anything provided I’m with you, I thought. People banging dustbin lids together, dropping stones down wells, you choose.

  ‘Who’s playing what?’ I asked, all cool and unconcerned, or so I hoped.

  ‘The Minnesota Orchestra. A Polish guy’s their soloist tonight and he’ll be playing the Emperor concerto. Do you know it? One of my graduate students told me this man is sensational and I would like to hear him.’