“You know him?” Oh. That’s not one I was expecting.
“Unfortunately,” he tells me, removing his arm from around me. I shiver slightly and try to convince myself that no arms around me is a good thing. “We’re related.”
“Oh, God. I didn’t mean to be rude about—”
“No worries,” he says, holding up a hand. “We can’t choose our relatives. Sidney is an obnoxious fellow, which is exactly why I take the approach that you did over dinner,” he tells me, and I nearly stumble as he leads me back across the room. But not because of my shoes.
“What?”
“Whenever I’m in his company, I just keep filling my mouth with whatever is handy so that I don’t have to actually talk to him.”
“Well, it seemed like the best thing to do.”
“I know—great minds think alike. In another reality we’re probably soul mates,” he says, winking.
“You really need to work on the cheese angle of your conversations,” I laugh, taking it as a joke, because it must be a joke, mustn’t it?
We are now at the edge of the dance floor. For some strange reason, I don’t want to introduce him to Jonathan. And I don’t want to think about soul mates, either. Better to break things off now. Not that there’s anything to break off, of course.
“Well, thank you for rescuing me,” I say, looking down at my too-tight shoes, and my feet begin to throb again. Oddly, I’d forgotten about them hurting just for a few minutes. “I think it would be better if…,” I break off, indicating Jonathan with my head.
“I understand,” he says, with a half smile. “I don’t want to be the cause of any unintentional disharmony. It was my pleasure. And thank you for not choking to death on the profiterole. It was the highlight of my evening, apart from dancing to Bing.”
I don’t want this conversation to end, which is also ridiculous.
“Well, good-bye then,” I say, holding out my hand. “And thank you.”
“My pleasure. Try not to expire over the cheese course,” he says, briefly taking my hand. “Chew well.”
“Who was that?” Jonathan asks by way of greeting as I slide into my seat.
“Oh, just some bloke,” I say, hoping that my face is not as flushed as it feels.
“Only I was looking all over the place for you. I thought you were still in the foyer. I missed you.”
How could he have missed me? He was too busy networking to even sit with me in the foyer. I squash this thought. Because it’s actually quite nice that he’s jealous. It shows he cares.
“I don’t even know his name,” I say evenly, because I’ve had enough disharmony today to last for a year. “He’s just someone who happened to be passing when I needed to be saved from dancing with Sidney.”
“Well, I don’t like the look of him,” Jonathan says, still looking a bit petulant. “And would it hurt you to have one dance with my boss? It is Christmas, after all. Cynthia danced with him.”
Lucky Cynthia.
“Don’t you remember the Halloween Ball and the false nose incident?” I ask. I’m a little hurt, because Jonathan could be a bit more understanding. I know he needs to focus on this promotion, but how can he bear the thought of his boss’s hands wandering all over his girlfriend?
“Yes, yes,” he says, taking my hand and smiling. “That was très quick thinking of you,” he adds. Whew. For a moment there I thought he was really going to take Sidney’s side. “It has to be said, you can be un peu clumsy on your feet—you nearly took out Sidney’s eye with that false nose, and we don’t want any more accidents.”
That wasn’t quite the response I hoped for. But before I can say something, Graham and Cynthia return from the dance floor to take their places at the table, and Jonathan, Graham and the company’s accountant commence their usual one-upmanship chat about how their respective departments are doing really well. An “I’m the man” exercise to prove their superiority over each other.
And when Cynthia strikes up a conversation with the company accountant’s wife about their new yacht, or château, or something equally fascinating, I am still smarting from Jonathan’s remarks and excuse myself in favor of the ladies’ room.
As I get to my feet I do not glance over to Dr. Love’s table to see if he is there. Or, indeed, to see if he is watching me. I wonder how much longer we have to stay for decency’s sake before we can leave….
“There she is,” a familiar voice behind me bellows, just as I am turning around to leave the table, and I cringe. “Haven’t had a chance to talk to you tonight, Rosie,” Sidney tells me, swaying.
That’s because I have been avoiding you, I think but don’t say. In fact, I don’t say anything at all. Because the sight of a tipsy Sidney, brandishing a sprig of mistletoe, is too awful for words.
“Come and give your Uncle Sidney a little Christmas kiss,” he says, lurching toward me, lips puckered as he reaches for me. He’s aiming right for my lips. And as his face reaches mine, and as his hand slides around my shoulder like a vice, ruining Jonathan’s chance for promotion is the last thing on my mind.
I am trapped.
The music has switched from slow to upbeat, and Slade’s “Well Here It Is, Merry Christmas” is now booming in the background. It’s a bit ironic, really, because I’m not feeling much Christmas cheer right at this moment.
Just as I get a wave of brandy breath blown in my face, just before Sidney’s lips reach me, I know that I have to do something to escape. I turn my head and tilt it away from him. And accidentally stomp on Sidney’s foot.
“Aaargh,” Sidney cries, dropping his mistletoe as he tumbles backward and narrowly misses falling on a woman at the next table when he hits the floor.
“Oops. Sorry,” I say, mortified. I didn’t mean to send him flying. I just meant to stop him from kissing me, that’s all. “Um, accidents will happen.”
“Sidney, you poor, poor man,” Cynthia twitters, out of her seat and kneeling by his side before I can blink. She looks up at me and shakes her head.
“Let me give you a help up.” Graham, also one not to miss a beat, is reaching down a hand to him.
“Ouch,” Sidney bellows as he’s levered into a sitting position. “I think my toe’s broken.”
“What did you do?” Jonathan jumps to his feet. “How did this happen?”
“He tried to kiss me—I mean really kiss me—and I stood on his toe,” I tell him, leaning in so that only Jonathan can hear me. Not that it’s a worry, because the music is practically deafening. “But I didn’t mean to cause Sidney any actual bodily harm.”
Sidney, now on his feet, is being helped to his chair by the overly concerned Graham and Cynthia. He is still bellowing, but fortunately, I can’t hear him. As Noddy Holder belts out, “Everybody’s having fun,” I sigh, briefly, because I am definitely not having fun. I hope I didn’t break his toe…
“God. This is terrible,” Jonathan says, pushing a hand through his hair as Noddy sings about looking to the future, and I feel bad for Jonathan, because he’s obviously worrying about his future within the company. It’s a tricky position to be in.
“Come on, we can rescue the situation,” he says, reaching for my arm. “Let’s get in there before Cynthia and Graham end up with all the credit. I don’t know—er, you slide off his shoe and check out his toe or something. Look, there’s the mistletoe—you could, you know, kiss it better.”
“What? No way am I kissing his toe, or any other part of him.” I mean, really!
“But that would show that it was just a clumsy accident—I’m sure he won’t hold a grudge against you.”
“What about me holding a grudge against him?” I squeak. Jonathan must understand. “Can’t we just, you know, leave quietly and let the fuss die down?”
“Are you mad? Of course I can’t leave. Graham will poison him against me if we do that. What grudge?”
“He tried to kiss me. And not a peck-on-the-cheek, innocent kind of kiss. And I’m not mad—I’m furious.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little bit?”
“Don’t you think you’re underreacting just a little bit?”
“What are you talking about?”
“On several occasions he has attempted to manhandle me, and I have overlooked them for your sake,” I tell him, my temper flaring. “But this is just too much.” How can Jonathan be more worried about his boss than me?
“Now, Rosie, I think you should just calm down a little—”
“Calm down?” I raise my voice, really seeing red. “I should be uncalming up, not calming down. And you should be supporting me.”
“But I do support you,” Jonathan says reasonably. “Maybe you shouldn’t have worn such a—a tight-fitting dress,” he adds, and I want to scream. It is the last straw.
“My dress,” I clearly enunciate each word, “is not an issue. Your boss is the issue. He is a lecherous, overbearing ass, and quite frankly, I can’t understand why he’s never been sued for sexual harassment.”
As I deliver that last sentence, I realize that the music has stopped for the master of ceremonies to take center stage, and everyone in the immediate vicinity heard my last remark. And are all looking at me. Including Sidney, Graham and Cynthia.
Graham and Cynthia are wearing cat-who-got-the-cream expressions, whereas Sidney resembles a storm cloud.
“Er, yes, I think you’re right, Rosie. I think you definitely should tell your cousin to sue,” Jonathan, ever quick on the recovery front, ad-libs for our audience at large. “Don’t worry,” Jonathan says as an aside to me as the MC announces the winner of the raffle. “I can fix this. I think you’d better slip out and go home before you can do any more damage. I’ll sort this out. I’ll follow you as soon as I can.”
“Don’t bother,” I say, because at this moment I don’t care if he can fix it or not. In fact, I don’t care about Jonathan coming home with me, either. And as I hobble forlornly across the room, I stop and take off my pinchy shoes.
Time for Cinderella to leave the ball without the prince…
“Marvelous exit,” Dr. Love says in my ear as he takes my coat from the cloakroom attendant, which is a surprise, because I was expecting her to put the coat in my outstretched hand. Plus, I wasn’t expecting Dr. Love to follow me, either.
“Here, let me help you with this,” he says, giving me a lopsided smile.
I know I shouldn’t be glad to see him. But I can’t help it. As soon as I hear his voice I feel just a bit better. It’s just because he’s being friendly, that’s all—and right now, friendliness is something I’m sorely in need of.
“Well, I thought I’d make it something memorable,” I tell him, trying not to cry as he holds my coat and I slide in one arm. “Something to really crown my miserable day. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be ministering to Sidney’s broken toe?”
“The toe is fine. Sidney will have forgotten all about it by tomorrow. Here,” he says, pausing to reach into his pocket for a tissue.
“Thank you,” I say, dabbing my eyes. “I’m fine now. You should go back to your date.”
“Trust me when I say that I won’t be sorely missed,” he tells me, which is very interesting, because I cannot imagine anyone not sorely missing him. “You look like you could do with some coffee. Let me take you for coffee, and you can laugh at my sardonic eyebrow and tell me about your miserable day.”
Coffee with a dangerously attractive, friendly stranger as opposed to slinking home to my own miserable company, where I will no doubt replay the whole disastrous evening again and again, is definitely appealing, but I cannot think for the life of me why Dr. Love is bothering.
“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me,” I say as I swap my shoes over to my other hand, and he eases my other sleeve onto my arm.
“After our dance and our shared love of Bing? You wound me to the quick,” he says, dramatically placing a hand on his heart, and I can’t help but laugh with him. “Plus, you promised me your firstborn if I rescued you, and I’m calling in your debt.”
“You might have to wait a long time for that,” I say morosely, thinking of Jonathan. “The way things are at the moment, I’m not even sure I have a boyfriend anymore.”
“So therefore far better to have coffee with me than go home and think suicidal thoughts.” He buttons my coat with nimble, elegant fingers. I shiver, imagining those fingers and what else they are capable of doing. I also notice that they are ringless. “I’d never forgive myself if you slit your wrists or something,” he adds.
“I’m much too sensible,” I say, just a little bitterly. And far too sensible to have coffee with handsome strangers, too…
“Well, then, break the mold of sensibility. I think McDonald’s in Piccadilly Circus is our best option at this time of night. Not exactly high on the scale of sophistication, but it’s close, convenient, and packed with people in case you’re worried that I have nefarious motives.”
His choice of venue is surprising, but at least it proves he’s not a snob. I really shouldn’t do this…
“I don’t think—” it’s a good idea, I nearly say.
“Don’t think,” he says, his handsome face earnest as he holds up a hand. “Just come. Besides, you’ll be saving me from self-imploding through boredom. A necessary evil to raise money for worthy causes, but I hate these shindigs,” he adds, with a grin, as he shrugs on his own coat.
What if I did? Do I really want to go home and sit by the telephone and wait for Jonathan to call?
To hell with sensible, I think as I smile back into his face. For once, common sense and practicality be damned.
“So your miserable day began—”
“This morning before I woke up,” I tell him as he tucks my hand in his arm and we walk to the door.
“Miserable days often start that way—mine usually involves a loud beeper in the wee hours of the morning to request my presence at the hospital.”
“I can’t beat that.” I shake my head. “My mysteriously nonfunctioning radio alarm fades into insignificance compared to, oh, saving lives.”
“Not at all,” he says, smiling ruefully. “I’m completely fascinated by mysterious radios. So, I take it this caused you to oversleep?” he prompts me.
“By an hour, but then the radiator in the living room decided to muscle in on the action.”
“A-ha. I’m guessing that until this point in time it was a very well-behaved radiator?”
“The height of radiator perfection,” I laugh. “It developed a sudden and violent leak,” I tell him, falling in easily with his rhythm of speech. This is actually quite fun…not that I should be having fun at a time like this.
As the doorman holds open the door for us, Dr. Love removes my hand from his arm.
“Hold on tight,” he says, and before I can ask him why, he scoops me up into his arms.
3
Cinderella Syndrome
Rosie’s Confession:
Venus, apart from being the Roman goddess of love and beauty, is the only planet in our solar system that rotates in a clockwise direction.
I mention this trivial fact (although obviously not so trivial to Venus) because at the precise moment Dr. Love picked me up, I got this dizzy, falling sensation, as if all the planets in my metaphorical internal solar system had ground to a halt and then begun spinning in the opposite direction, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Which is ridiculous, because I don’t believe in love at first sight.
Never before in my life has a man lifted me into his arms and carried me—except for my dad, when I was little. But a hundred and twenty-five pounds of woman is a lot of weight to haul around compared to, say, thirty pounds of toddler.
What if he drops me? What if I’m too heavy?
“Relax, I’m not going to let you fall,” he says.
Actually, it does feel safe, and secure and…rather nice. Too nice. He’s just being nice to me. This is not an invitation to cuddle closer
and run my fingers through his endearingly floppy, yet well-cut, hair.
“You’re doing the free-form arm thing again,” he says in my ear, and I have to force myself not to shiver at the warmth of his breath. “You might want to put one around my neck for balance.”
“But—” That would mean even more intimate contact with his person. Yes, every nerve ending in my body sings. No—think clearly, logically, I tell myself.
“Your poor feet have had enough torture—the last thing they need is to walk the streets of London clad only in panty hose. And besides, it’s starting to rain a bit.”
“But—” I tentatively slide my arm around his neck. Hmmm. He really does smell good…
“No buts,” he says, his face so close to mine that I could kiss him….
I squash that thought immediately. This is about coffee, I remind myself. Think about coffee. Think about Jonathan. How can I even consider kissing another man?
“So, where were we?” he asks as we reach the line of cabs outside the hotel, and I can’t remember, because his arms are so lovely and strong and warm. “Ah, yes—the badly behaved radiator. I’m thinking this involved a long wait for the plumber—”
I can’t stop myself from grinning back. He’s just so charming. He places me into the cab, and as he climbs in the other side, I’m wishing he’d carried me for longer. Which is totally ridiculous…
“Piccadilly Circus, please,” he tells the cab driver. “And?” he prompts me. Where was I? “Waiting for the plumber,” he prompts me again.
“And moving vast quantities of furniture and books, so that I could save the carpet from certain ruin,” I tell him.
“Always a good plan.”
“Yes, but while saving the carpet from certain ruin, my toast caught fire on the grill.”
“They don’t make grills the way they used to. The new ones are just too sophisticated and efficient—damn shame, the way they burn the toast,” he says, shaking his head as if burning toast was the most normal thing in the world to do.
Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 3
