“At least I know that my fire alarms are in good working order,” I say, as we reach McDonald’s and he scoops me out of the cab. I nearly forget to breathe as I try to focus on the conversation. “The firemen were very understanding about being called out on a false alarm,” I tell him as we reach the doors and he places me back on my feet.
“Better a false alarm than a real emergency. Two large, normal coffees, please,” he says to the assistant. And then to me, “Is that okay? I can’t get to grips with all these newfangled coffee options—it’s all latte whatsits, skinny this, and mocha that—very confusing.”
“Normal coffee is great,” I say. And then, as we sit down at a table in the corner, “This must be so trivial compared to your days.” I must sound like a complete idiot, chattering on and on.
“Not at all trivial.” He shakes his head. “We’ve barely scratched the surface. Lunchtime.”
“Okay. So at lunchtime—”
“Which you planned to work through in order to catch up on the work you missed this morning—”
I think he’s psychic.
“My mother called. This involved a detailed description of her latest crisis—the gas supply was disconnected—”
“And I’m guessing here that your mother is like mine, therefore this also involved you fixing it,” he says, stirring sugar into his coffee.
Definitely psychic! And he’s good to his mother.
“A lengthy trip to the energy company to pay the late bill, and threaten, cajole and plead until they agreed to reconnect this afternoon.”
“My God, you’re good.” He raises that sardonic eyebrow again. “It usually takes them at least a week. Sorry—old habits die hard,” he adds, smoothing his eyebrow.
“Granny Elsie was my ace card,” I tell him dryly. Actually, the eyebrow thing is very cute. “She lives with Mum, and I simply pointed out that it would not be good publicity to allow an eighty-six-year-old grandmother to spend the weekend in a freezing house.”
“Clever move.”
“Well, I thought so. I didn’t mention the alternative plan to the company representative—Mum’s covert threat that she and Granny Elsie would move in with me until it was fixed.”
“And although you love them, this was not a tempting alternative?”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I’m with you, trust me,” he nods. “My mother, much as I adore her and am grateful to her for carrying me for nine months, and generally making sure I grew up without killing myself on motorbikes and such, would drive me mad within the hour—far too tidy.”
Another reason why Dr. Love and I would never be compatible. Not that I’m making a list here, of course…
“My mother’s the opposite,” I sigh and don’t add that I am a neat freak. I’d drive him crazy.
“Mine would be ironing my socks and scrubbing between the tiles in the bathroom with a toothbrush before I could blink. Or rather, she’d hire a maid to do it.”
I flush. I iron socks and clean between the bathroom tiles with an old toothbrush.
“Um—” His folks have maids? Mine can barely afford the gas bill, and his have staff.
“Oh, God—I didn’t mean to insult you,” he says, his eyes crinkling as his hair flops onto his forehead. “Nothing wrong with being clean and tidy—in fact, they do say that cleanliness is next to godliness. Now back to your day,” he says, pushing his hair back.
“Well, because I was running so late, of course I missed the cleaners by five minutes, which means that I couldn’t retrieve my discreet black velvet evening dress. This also means that instead, I am wearing a much more revealing evening dress.”
“I, for one, am rejoicing. That’s a very attractive dress you’re wearing.”
“Thank you,” I tell him evenly, but my pulse is humming, and my heart is pounding just a bit harder at the way he’s looking at me. Even though he can’t see the dress, because my coat is covering it. “But this was not my choice of dress for tonight. I didn’t want to encourage Sidney’s wandering hands.”
“Sidney should be in complete control of his hands at all times. Trust me—the dress is not an issue.”
Why couldn’t Jonathan have said something like that? Thinking of Jonathan depresses my mood. I wonder what he’s doing and what he’s thinking…
“It is when your boyfriend is really hoping for a promotion and you don’t want to piss off his boss,” I say, looking into my coffee cup. I don’t need to point out that my boyfriend chose to stay with his boss, rather than leave with me. How pathetic must I seem?
But I still can’t believe that my boyfriend, whom I love—at least I’m nearly sure I love him—could not see the situation for what it was.
“That’s a sticky one. Yet your boyfriend, I’m sure, will come to his senses, and by tomorrow this will all be a storm in a teacup. They say that everything seems a lot better in the morning.”
“But not—”
“—the mornings when your alarm clock fails to work,” he finishes my sentence for me again.
Dr. Love is a complete stranger, yet I feel like I know him. How odd is that? But maybe he understands because he’s removed from the situation. It’s sometimes hard to see something if you’re too close, isn’t it?
“So, after your surreal, stress-filled day—”
“I had only fifteen minutes to get ready for this surreal, stress-filled evening.”
“I’d never have guessed,” he says. “You look lovely, and if I were your boyfriend I’d be completely proud to have such an amazing girlfriend who worries about my promotion prospects.”
I break eye contact and refocus on my coffee.
“It’s late,” I say eventually, my cheeks still on fire at his last comment. He’s just being nice, and I am far too sensible to read more into his words. I should go home. For all I know, Jonathan might be trying to call me right now to explain and apologize.
“Yes. Of course. I’m sure your boyfriend will be worried about you. I’d be worried about you. Oh, excuse me one moment,” he says as his beeper rings. “I suspect that Baby Woodbridge has decided to make an appearance, which will be a relief for poor Mrs. Woodbridge, because she’s a week past her due date.”
And as he calls the hospital on his cell phone, I can’t help but think back to his comment earlier this evening when I first grabbed his arm at the fund-raiser. He really does make a habit of saving damsels in distress…
“Sadly, I have to go, too.” And his smile really is sad, as if he’s really going to miss me. I must get a grip on reality.
“Which is not sad for Mrs. Woodbridge, though,” I say, getting to my feet and picking up my shoes.
“It looks like she’s in for a long night.” He takes our cups and places them in the trash. “Ten hours of contractions and she’s still only dilated by two centimeters.”
“I’m sure she’s in the best hands.” I pause as we reach the door. “Well, thank you so much for coffee and the shoulder to cry on.”
“Not so fast,” he tells me, and my heart leaps into my mouth. Maybe he’s going to ask me for my number. “Hold on tight,” he tells me, scooping me up into his arms again. I could get used to this—used to him, I think, as the blood in my brain pounds in my ears. “Let’s get you safely into a taxi.”
“Really, there’s no need—I can walk,” I protest just a bit but am secretly delighted at the close contact. My body is even more delighted, and hums, aching to get closer. Even if only for a few seconds. Even if guys like him never ask for telephone numbers from girls like me.
“Well, here we are,” he says, turning his head to look into my eyes just as a black cab pulls over. And what I see there freezes me.
“Yes,” I breathe, my heart racing, because he’s looking at me as if he is starving and I am a delicious meal.
“I’d better put you down,” he says, as if he never wants to put me down.
“Yes,” I breathe again, swallowing as he begins to bend to place m
e in the cab, and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the whisper of suggestion in my ears.
And in that moment, I want to be rash. I forget that I am Miss Sensible and know that I am about to do something exciting. Impulsive. Irrational. Instinctively, my arm tightens around his neck, and his face moves closer to mine. And I, Rosie Mayford, take the final step and kiss him.
It is soft, and sweet, and gentle, and tastes of coffee. And my God, I want more.
And when he pulls back, probably shocked to his core that a complete stranger has kissed him, and he was only being kind to the poor girl, after all, I hardly dare open my eyes. But when I finally do, his are hot and blazing.
This time, the kiss isn’t soft at all.
It’s hot, and wet, and explosive, and exhilarating. Every nerve ending in my body is screaming with joy.
I don’t notice when I drop my shoes and wind my other arm around him, pulling him closer, sliding around in his arms to press more closely to him.
I don’t notice the damp as my feet touch the wet ground.
I don’t notice the chill in the air, or the noise of the traffic, or the bright neon lights of Piccadilly Circus, because of the fireworks exploding in my head.
But the impatient honking of the taxi is a reality check. What the hell am I doing, playing with fire like this?
“Come on, love, is he getting in the cab with you or not?” the cab driver yells through the window, and I pull away and gasp.
Dr. Love looks as stunned as me. But probably not for the same reasons.
How can I kiss another man so passionately, when only an hour or two previously I was thinking of Friday-night sex with my boyfriend of six months? What kind of woman does this make me?
“Um. I’d better go. You’d better go,” I babble, jumping into the cab.
Dr. Love, for once, doesn’t have much to say. He is still standing there with that dazed expression on his face, but lunatic women who kiss you passionately in the middle of a busy London street can have that effect on you.
I pull the door closed, and as the taxi pulls away, I cannot resist turning around to get one last glimpse of him. What must he think of me?
“I said, where to, love?” the cab driver asks me.
“Notting Hill. Princedale Road,” I tell him, realizing the irony of my street address as I watch Dr. Love pick up my forgotten shoes from the sidewalk.
But he’s not my prince, I remind myself. And the shoes don’t even fit.
And then I realize something else.
He kissed me right back.
4
Sense and Sensibility
Rosie’s Confession:
I think I might be a slut.
I have a boyfriend, who, despite his little flaws, I think I love. So how could I have been so tempted by Dr. Love at the first sign of trouble? I must be a slut.
Apparently, scientists have developed a method of inserting a single monogamous male prairie vole cell into the brain of promiscuous male meadow voles, which makes them faithful.
Wonder if it works on human females?
Yes, I am a coward.
Instead of staying home this morning to answer my phone messages from Mum, and possibly from Jonathan, I am hiding in a coffee bar on Portobello Road with best friend Carmen. Actually, I’m not technically hiding at all, because I always meet Carmen and Jess (who is always late) for coffee on Portobello Road on Saturdays. The fact that I’ve also left my cell phone at home was just—absentminded of me, that’s all…
Okay, so I left it at home on purpose. I just need to clear my head a bit. You know, to regain some sense of normality. But I’m beginning to wish that I hadn’t told Carmen about last night.
“You did what?” Carmen asks me, her lovely gypsy eyes widening to saucers as she leans back in her chair.
She is peering at me as if I have just announced that I have developed a sudden, passionate interest in poisonous arachnids, am leaving behind all that is near and dear to me, and am emigrating to Australia to better study my subject matter.
This shock, I suspect, is because we usually spend Saturday mornings rehashing her current drama with Paul from the night before, and what should she do, and I give her advice that she usually ignores, and then I tell her about my mother’s latest drama, and she gives me advice that I try to take but don’t quite manage. But the drama doesn’t usually revolve around me, personally.
“That’s just so—so nonsensible of you,” she says.
I pick up a teaspoon and carefully focus on stirring my coffee—unnecessary, since I don’t take sugar, but my face is flaming, and I’d rather not share my embarrassment with the whole coffee shop.
“I know,” I say to the tabletop. “I don’t know what came over me. I hate nonsensible.”
Carmen, not the kind to be shy about voicing her opinion, is unusually silent. But then, despite the fact that she has complained about Paul nonstop since the moment they met eighteen months ago, she’s totally besotted and would never cheat on him by kissing a complete stranger.
“Sooooo,” I say too brightly, in my bid to change the subject. “You and Paul smash any good plates last night?”
“Darling, just because Paul and I like to voice our opinions and discuss our personal issues in an adult, open forum, doesn’t mean that we fight all of the time, you know,” she says, frowning as she twirls a handful of her long, red curls. “As a matter of fact, we had a nice, quiet evening with takeout Indian and a bottle of wine.”
“That sounds very, um, romantic,” I say but am instantly suspicious. As Carmen twirls her hair even more furiously, I wonder if everything is okay between them. You see, the hair-twirling thing means either (a) that she is worried about something, or (b) thinking deeply and meaningfully about something.
“Paul did a fourteen-hour shoot for Free Your Food magazine yesterday. He was just tired, okay? So don’t go reading anything into it, Miss Rational,” she says, abandoning her hair twirling.
“I wasn’t,” I tell her, a bit surprised by the vehemence of her tone.
“And don’t change the subject. No wonder you look like shit.” She shakes her head in wonder. This is not quite the response I was hoping for.
It’s a good job we’ve been friends since school, and therefore I know that when she says things like “You look like shit,” she is not being a bitch—she’s trying for empathic.
But after the night I spent tossing and not sleeping, I think I look relatively good. And at least I finally got around to alphabetizing my CD and DVD collection.
“Thanks for the brutal honesty,” I say, sipping my coffee. “You should have seen me this morning pre-emergency Clarins and eyedrop treatment. God, do I need this caffeine.”
“Darling, I really didn’t think you had it in you,” she says. And then utterly confuses me by grinning like a Cheshire cat. “This is great. This is fabulous. Totally un-fucking-believably fantastic. Although I may need years of therapy to recover from the shock.”
I don’t see what’s so fabulous about it and am about to say so when Jess comes dashing over to our table.
“Hello, hello, sorry I’m late,” Jess chirps to us, and Carmen and I pick up our cups before she places hers on the table. The table rocks, and her herbal tea sloshes into the saucer.
“Darling, we were beginning to think you’d been abducted by aliens again,” Carmen says, her eyes still on me.
Jess really does believe she was abducted by aliens once, briefly, in college. But Carmen and I are convinced it was a hallucination due to her roommates’ fondness for “herbal” cigarettes.
“My God, it is madness out there.” Jess rummages in one of her bags. “Madness, I tell you. Portobello Road on Saturday in December! What else can I expect? I know, I know, but look at these,” she says, her cheeks pink and flushed from the cold and excitement as she brandishes a pair of fuzzy, bright orange earmuffs.
“Bright orange earmuffs contrasted with bright pink hair and a bright purple swea
tshirt. Interesting fashion statement,” Carmen says. “Today is just full of madness and surprises,” she adds, glancing slyly across at me. “Take our Rosie, here—she had a very surprisingly mad evening.”
“Oh, they’re not for me—they’re for Mummy.” Jess, who still hasn’t quite caught up with the conversation, shakes her head, and a curtain of pink hair falls around her sweet face. “To go with the orange sweater I made her for Christmas. I think they’re perfect.”
It’s hard to imagine Jess’s mother, Lady Etherington, wearing anything except Burberry, but I don’t tell Jess this because she is one of the most well-meaning people I know.
“The pink hair is adorable,” I tell her, because it is. Not many people can carry that off with aplomb.
“Stop changing the subject, again,” Carmen tells me.
“What? What? Did I miss something?” Jess pulls her chair up to the table, and Carmen and I grab for our coffees again, just in time to save them from getting sloshed. “Sorry, sorry.” Jess holds up her hands as more of her herbal tea leaps over the rim of her cup. “Aster’s always telling me I’m a clumsy clogs.”
“You’re not clumsy,” Carmen says loyally, her lips pursing.
“No, not clumsy. Just always in a hurry,” I say, remembering that Jonathan called me clumsy, too.
Carmen doesn’t like Jess’s boyfriend, Aster, very much. I’m not terribly keen on him, either. His real name is Glen, but Aster, short for Asterisk, meaning star, apparently has more kudos when you’re a budding pop star on the verge of fame.
“I’m making him a black sweater with a white star on the front for Christmas. Do you think he’ll like it?” Jess asks, chewing on her lip.
“I’m, um, sure he will,” I lie. Not because the sweater won’t be great, but because Aster, although a poor, struggling artist on welfare, has developed fine tastes in designer grunge clothes. All purchased with Jess’s trust fund.
“He’ll love it,” Carmen says in a way that implies “I will strangle him with it if he doesn’t.”
“But anyway, anyway, what did you mean about Rosie’s evening? Not trouble with Horrible Boss again? Horrible, horrible man,” Jess says sorrowfully. “How did it go?” She leans across the table to give my arm a sympathetic pat.
Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 4
