‘So would I.’
‘Okay, that’s what we’ll do. I checked the website earlier and there are tickets left. We’ll be too late to catch the Mendelssohn this guy is playing first, but we can go in at half time.’
What was this Emperor concerto? I didn’t like to say I’d never heard of it, that I preferred Bob Dylan, Amy Winehouse and Christina Perri.
Pat drank his coffee, ate his muffin.
‘Good to go?’ he asked me, putting down his cup and winding his black scarf around his neck.
‘Yes, good to go,’ I trilled. I was so jealous of that scarf!
‘Please could you pass my handbag?’ I pointed to the chair beside him where I’d dumped my coat and bag. ‘I need a paper hankie. I thought I had one up my sleeve, but it’s not there and so I’ll need to have a little rummage.’ What an idiot, I thought. I must sound like my mother. What must he make of me?
I didn’t listen to the Emperor concerto.
I was hardly conscious of the hall, the Minnesota Orchestra, the brilliant Polish guy. It was as if they were all under water and everything was muted, blurred – everything, that is, except for him.
Patrick Riley was as sharp and clear as a bright summer morning. As we sat there listening – or in my case not listening – to the Minnesota Orchestra, all my senses were attuned to him.
I heard his soft and regular breathing. There was his right hand upon the armrest, a mere inch or so away from mine. He had attractive hands – of course I had already noticed that – square and capable, with blunt-cut nails, and perfect on a man.
Whenever I could – or dared – I glanced at him. I breathed him in, I almost tasted him. I lost myself in him.
He’d taken off his dark grey jacket and I saw he had a brand new shirt on – light blue cotton with a pale grey stripe. Perhaps he’d bought it earlier that day? There were telltale creases on the sleeves, across the chest, and every time he breathed I saw his ribcage rise, rise, rise, then fall, fall, fall again.
I could smell something faintly cinnamon-scented – was it him? It was delicious anyway, and I wanted, wanted to press my palm against his chest, to feel the warmth of him.
I wanted, wanted to take his hand and—
This was truly awful. I forced myself to breathe more slowly, deeply. I told myself to think of school dinners, trying to find a taxi in the rush hour, hockey on wet winter mornings, putting out the bins. Anything but Patrick Riley sitting next to me, conscious of him breathing in and out and wanting, wanting him …
Then it was all over and everybody started getting up. Pat was putting on his coat and, as he raised his arms, I became aware of the most potent and attractive of all scents to women, that of warm and clean and sexy man.
‘What did you think?’ he asked me, handing me the scarf I had forgotten.
‘Oh, I loved it,’ I replied. ‘Did you?’
‘I thought it was exceptional.’ He smiled and made my heart turn somersaults. ‘I guess you must be hungry now?’
‘A little, I suppose.’
‘Do you want to go get a Chinese?’
‘That would be great.’ I wanted him to take my hand. But of course he wouldn’t, I knew that, and it was just as well.
‘You’ll be going back to England soon,’ he said, as they put our dishes of special egg-fried rice, of beef in black bean sauce, of chicken with pineapple and cashew nuts, of sticky ribs and all the other stuff he’d ordered – without asking me, I have to say, which was either very caring, masterful or downright rude of him – on the glass and aluminium table in the most upmarket Chinese restaurant I had ever come across. ‘You’ll be glad to see your folks again.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘It will be good to see my family.’ I forced a smile. ‘But when I get home, I shall be starting my own business, and I suppose I might be just a little bit afraid.’
‘I’m sure you’ll do just fine.’ He forked up noodles, bean sprouts, prawns and rice. No chopsticks for Professor Riley, I observed. They were lying unbroken by his plate. I didn’t blame him. I was total rubbish when it came to using chopsticks and I also used a fork. ‘How do you like the food?’ he asked.
‘It’s wonderful.’
‘It’s always good in here.’ He scooped up chicken, pineapple, cashews. But he didn’t eat – instead, his fork stayed hovering above his plate. ‘There must be some guy in Britain who is looking forward to seeing you again?’ he added, looking straight at me.
‘No.’ I shrugged, remembering the best man at that wedding with the bridesmaid’s scarlet knickers on his head. He’d been the last to make a pass at me. ‘There’s nobody at all. Actually, I don’t have too much history with guys.’
‘You mean you don’t like men?’
Well, for goodness sake – direct or what? ‘I like men well enough,’ I said. ‘I’ve been on dates. But I’ve never been especially close to one particular man. I’ve never got engaged or anything. I’m sure my mother thinks I must be gay.’
‘So are you?’
‘No – and before you ask me, I’m not bisexual, either.’
I think I must have sounded quite offended because his ears went red. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. Of course it isn’t any of my business.’ He waved his fork over his laden plate of everything on offer. ‘I’m glad you like my choice of food,’ he added. ‘When the guy came up to take our order, you didn’t seem to notice he was there. When he spoke to you, you didn’t answer. It seemed like you were in a kind of daydream. So I asked him to bring a bunch of stuff.’
‘Oh, good heavens, I do apologise.’ I wished the ground would open up and swallow me, digest me. I felt my face catch fire. ‘I’ve always been a dreamer,’ I said, or rather muttered. ‘My teachers all despaired of me.’ But although this was the truth, or at least a kind of truth, I could not remember actually zoning out before.
I forced myself to swallow a half-chewed piece of mushroom. It felt like I was choking on a slug. ‘This is all fantastic,’ I said brightly, Miss Congeniality herself. ‘I’ve always loved Chinese.’
He didn’t speak – instead, looked at me intently, unspoken questions in his dark brown eyes. I met his gaze for maybe twenty seconds. Then I stared down at the table. There was his left hand holding his fork and on his third finger was his wedding ring, which I had never noticed until now.
Or not wanted to notice? Why had I met this man? Why had I rung him? Why was I here with him? I couldn’t deal with the emotions I was feeling.
They asked too much of me.
PATRICK
‘Rosie, are you done?’ I asked.
‘I think so,’ she replied, putting down her silverware and sighing. ‘I’m sorry, Pat,’ she added. ‘Absolutely everything is totally delicious, but I’m tired.’
No, I told the waiter who was hovering beside us. No, I didn’t want a doggie bag. Yeah, the food was excellent. There was no problem with the food or service, but we were running late for something and we had to dash. Yeah, we’d come back soon.
‘I’ll call a cab for you,’ I said when we were on the sidewalk, thinking I can’t stand all this much longer. But in another way I’d like to stand it all my life.
‘Or maybe you could drive me? I’d appreciate it if you would.’
Did she know what she was doing to me?
No, she couldn’t know. But her eyes were bright and she looked feverish and she couldn’t concentrate when we were in the restaurant. I swear she didn’t listen to that music. She hardly touched her food. She clearly wasn’t well. So we walked the couple hundred yards back to the parking lot where I had left the trash-mobile.
‘I need to have a blitz on this,’ I said apologetically, sweeping candy wrappers and juice containers off the seats to add to the debris and garbage rotting on the floor.
‘You should see my Fiesta. It’s full of junk, much worse than this. I don’t have your excuse because I haven’t any children.’ She smiled a rueful s
mile. ‘Any mess I make is down to me.’
Yes, I thought, and how.
When we reached Ben’s apartment building, I found I couldn’t stand to let her go. So I walked her past the dozing janitor, through the empty lobby and then we rode the elevator up to the ninth floor.
I stood there while she rummaged in her handbag – yeah, I was learning Britglish – for the keys.
‘Thank you for coming out with me tonight,’ she said as she pushed the key into the lock. ‘What do I owe you for the concert, meal and stuff?’
‘You don’t owe me anything at all.’ I never let a woman pay. I do have some pride. ‘Thank you for your company this evening.’ Rosie, please invite me in, I begged her in my mind. No, don’t – that would be crazy. ‘When did you say you’re due to go back home?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t, but my flight’s on Friday evening.’
‘So tomorrow will be your last day. Let’s meet up tomorrow eightish, shall we? Go someplace for dinner?’
‘Tess and Ben are coming home tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, I know. The four of us could go for an Italian. Ben doesn’t do adventurous with food and so American-Italian is just about as daring as it gets. I’ll book a table, shall I?’
‘Yes, that would be lovely. Well, it’s getting late, and you must have to go to work tomorrow, so I’ll say goodnight.’
‘Goodnight – sleep well – sweet dreams.’
Why was I saying all this shit? Why didn’t I take this woman in my arms and kiss and kiss and kiss her until she begged for mercy? Why didn’t I go swim with alligators – that would make more sense?
As I told myself to move, but somehow couldn’t get my dumbass legs to understand, my cell phone chirped.
I got a text from Ben.
The CEO of Ryder Books is taking Tess and me to lunch at the Algonquin Friday. Where Dottie Parker and Vicious Circle used to meet – you know? I guess you don’t, you ignorant mechanic! So could you see Rosie gets her plane?
ROSIE
As Pat was scrolling through his texts and I was trying to stop myself from grabbing him and pulling him into the flat and tearing off his nice new shirt and making all those plastic buttons ping across the room, I got a text from Tess.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. But we’re not coming back for 3 more days. Ben wants to have lunch at this hotel where some old bat called Dottie Parker used to go. He’s so excited. This evening, he was almost snogging Mr CEO! I said why don’t u 2 get a room, not go to the Algongything hotel? Anyway, Ben’s
Then the text broke off.
Twenty seconds later – I was counting and also watching Patrick Riley’s fingers typing something, wishing they were tapping out a text on me – my mobile chirped again.
texted Pat and says he’s sure he’ll take u to the airport, see u off. I hope he will. Did u get to see him in the meantime? Did he meet u anywhere downtown? Did u have a coffee?
Gotta go! TX
‘You must go and get some sleep,’ I said to Pat.
‘Yeah, I guess I must.’ He pushed his phone into his pocket. ‘Thank you for a pleasant evening, Rosie.’
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so lonely as I watched him walk towards the lift, oblivious of the state in which he left me.
I was awake all night.
At half past seven the following morning, I got a call from Pat.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No,’ I told him as my heart began to thump.
‘Do you have a busy day ahead?’
‘Yes, fairly busy. I need to send some emails, write to people who might give me work and then sort out my website.’
Why didn’t I say I was completely free, and when and where could we meet up, perhaps for lunch? Where were we going for dinner, was that still on tonight? But I suppose I’m British …
‘I expect you’re busy, too?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah, I got a bunch of classes, meeting with the dean, an article to finish, some papers to review – the usual stuff. I’ll see you later, shall I?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry? But I thought—’
‘I don’t have time for dinner, after all.’ Why did I say that? I wanted more than anything to see him! So what was stopping me?
I was afraid.
We’d have dinner. He would bring me back to this apartment. So I would invite him in for coffee. Stuff would happen. Or I would do my best to make it happen, anyway.
But if something, anything should happen, where would that leave me? I’d have been a momentary diversion for a married man whose wife might want him back some day, and who was the father of two children. I’d go home and we would never meet again. So why meet at all?
‘I have to do my packing,’ I said lamely. ‘I need to sort things out.’
‘Of course you do. Okay, I’ll take you to the airport.’
‘I was thinking I could get a cab.’
‘I’ll pick you up about half six to seven tomorrow evening. We can get a coffee and a sandwich at the airport. You have a great day.’
‘Patrick, wait, I’ve changed my mind, I—’
But he had already disconnected.
I moped around the place all day, trying to work and mostly failing, sending emails, ringing Fanny for advice, fiddling with my website and my blog and drinking pints of coffee.
I was almost on the ceiling by the evening. I didn’t sleep at all that night, and I did my packing Friday morning in a coffeeholic haze. I don’t remember getting in Pat’s Honda or driving to the airport. I only knew I was with him, that’s all, experiencing him.
We stood there at the barrier.
‘It’s been great to know you, Rosie Denham.’
He offered me his hand.
I almost took it. But then I decided it couldn’t end like this. I had to taste him, feel him – know if he was warm or cold and if his mouth was hard or soft. If I didn’t grab this opportunity, I knew I would regret it all my life. So I took him by the shoulders, pulled him close to me and then I kissed him.
He didn’t pull away from me. But that was probably because he couldn’t quite believe what I was doing, that I’d grabbed him in a public place and started snogging him.
They called my flight.
He took no notice. He wrapped his arms around me and he kissed me. Almost hesitatingly at first, but very soon his kisses grew fierce and hard and hungry. I forgot the time, the place, for at that moment nothing else existed. The world was made of him.
They called my flight again.
I let him go. Stepping back a pace or two, I ran my fingers through my messed-up hair. Patrick Riley looked at me. What would he say now, if anything? I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, could not read the expression in his eyes.
But that’s the thing about brown eyes, of course. They don’t give much away. My own are grey, transparent. So, when I was little, my mother always knew when I was fibbing. But I bet his mother never knew.
‘You need to go.’ He pushed his hand into his pocket, found a card and handed it to me. ‘Let me know you got home safe?’
‘I shall.’
I wasn’t going to say goodbye. My lips still smarting from his kisses, I walked through the barrier and went to catch my plane.
A married man, a father of small children – whatever was I thinking? But I couldn’t regret what I had done. As I stood in the queue to board, I looked at Patrick’s card – plain black and white, no colours, frills or furbelows, but with all the details I would need to contact him again. It was the most precious thing I owned – a holy relic, a magic talisman.
Let me know you got home safe, he’d said.
I remembered reading somewhere that there was no reason emails couldn’t be the perfect conduits of the soul and spirit, as effective and direct as any written letters.
They were personal communications, after all.
FROM: Rosie Denham
SUBJECT: Back in the UK
TO: Patrick M Riley
SENT: 29 September 18.47
Hi Pat
I’m home again.
Many thanks for looking after me while Tess and Ben were out of town and for taking me to catch my flight.
You were very kind.
All best wishes
Rosie X
FROM: Patrick M Riley
SUBJECT: Happy Landing
TO: Rosie Denham
SENT: September 30 16.26
Hi Rosie
Good to hear you made it.
Pat
That was all he said. How could he be so curt and so dismissive? Those kisses, had they meant precisely nothing? Yes, you idiot, I told myself, that’s exactly what those kisses meant – precisely nothing!
So now sort out your life.
October
PATRICK
I couldn’t work. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep.
I took long walks downtown and sat in cafés daydreaming and trying to figure out what I was doing. Why was I behaving like a teenager? What was wrong with me? I never felt so happy, sad, upset, exhilarated or confused in all my life.
Everyone at JQA knew Lex was fooling round with Mr Wonderful and that the British bastard had my kids because I hadn’t put up any fight when Lexie told me she was leaving and taking Joe and Polly.
She shared the details of her new relationship and posted pictures of her Limey lover on her Facebook page. I clicked through half a dozen photographs. I saw the British guy was just a guy – no horns, no fangs, no obvious tail – brown hair, medium build and height, blue eyes and dreadful British teeth.
Then I unfriended Lex and all our mutual friends as well because I didn’t need to know them any more.
‘Professor Riley, I’m so sorry about you and Mrs Riley.’
‘Pat, Melissa’s fixing pot roast Thursday. Why don’t you come by and join the party?’
‘Patrick, if you’re ever in our neighbourhood, George and I would love to have you visit with us. Please come by for brunch one Saturday?’
‘Dr Riley, may I get you anything – a Danish or a doughnut?’
So they pussyfooted round me, trying to be nice and not to startle me or worry me, I guess, and it was kindly meant.
Julianne, my fifty-something secretary, or whatever I’m supposed to call her nowadays – aide, facilitator, PA, guard dog, she’s all of those and more, she guards me like a dragon guards its hoard – brought me cream cheese bagels, salt beef sandwiches, crackers that she made herself.
Magic Sometimes Happens Page 11
