If I fortify myself in the hotel’s main bar, in peace and solitude, I will not have to contend with coupledom and ghosts of boyfriends past, because at this point I’m wondering why Ivan hasn’t made an appearance.
“Double gin and tonic,” I tell the barman, then change my mind. “Actually, make that a triple,” I say, pulling myself onto one of the barstools. My feet feel instantly better.
“One of those days?” he asks, smiling.
“You could say that.” Hmmm, I think as I take a deep swallow of my drink and the gin immediately hits my nervous system.
Peace and quiet at last.
“You know, drinking alone is the first step along a slippery, shady road to ruin,” an attractive baritone voice says in my ear. “I definitely think you need rescuing from that. Mind if I join you?”
And as I turn to face the owner of the attractive baritone voice, “Sweet Mystery of Life, at Last I’ve Found You,” begins to play, rather inexplicably, in my head.
And Dr. Love raises a sardonic eyebrow at me.
10
Some Enchanted Evening…
Rosie’s Confession:
Women blink nearly twice as much as men…
I mention this because I’m blinking like a madwoman, because I can’t. Believe. My eyes…
Of all the bars in all of London, he had to walk into this one, I think rather hysterically as my whole body jumps to immediate alert.
So, to add insult to injury, as well as the “Sweet Mystery of Life, at Last I’ve Found You,” soundtrack running through my head, I am now also channeling Casablanca.
Play it, Dr. Love, I think.
“It’s you,” I say like a dimwit, not resembling Ingrid Bergman in the slightest, because, of course, I cannot think of anything droll or charming to say.
I can’t think of anything at all, because the rush of adrenaline has rendered my brain dizzy, and I have lost the power of coherent speech.
“Yes, I think it’s safe to say that it’s actually me,” Dr. Love says, smiling his charming smile as he looks down at his chest and pats himself. And looks back at me, and I’m mesmerized by brown eyes and his crinkling smile. “Again. Luke Benton,” he tells me, holding out a hand.
“Sorry?”
“We never did get around to exchanging names, did we? And I always make a point of finding out the names of the women I—” He pauses, and my mouth dries up as I wait for him to say kiss. “Rescue,” he finishes, and my heart pounds right into my throat.
“Rosie Mayford,” I squeak, flushing. We might not have gotten around to names, but man did we ever get around to exchanging saliva. It seems rather surreal to be shaking his hand, given our exciting, if somewhat brief, history. Luke Benton. Luke Benton, I think, savoring his name.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Rosie,” he says, holding my hand in his. “Unexpected, but lovely. Why are you torturing your feet with tight shoes again?”
“Me, too. Um, because they go with the dress?” It’s true. Yet again, I sacrificed comfort in the name of “fuck me” shoes, but the spiked heels look so good with the dress. God, but his hand feels so warm and solid, and he’s even better, so much better, in real life than in my daydreams. I’d forgotten how compelling, how sexy, how dangerous…
Reluctantly, I let go of his hand, because I’ve been holding it for longer than I should, and he must think I’m an idiot.
“So how’s the doctoring business?” God, I could kick myself for the drivel coming out of my mouth. What would Ingrid say in a situation like this? “How’s, um, Mrs. Woodbridge?” I ask, groping for something scintillating. God, why can’t I be scintillating?
“Mother and baby boy are doing very well, although by the time ten-pound Baby Woodbridge decided to make an appearance, poor Mrs. Woodbridge had graduated from calling Mr. Woodbridge all the names under the sun to quite a lot of words I’ve never heard before. And swearing that this was the first and last time she’d put herself through such torture.”
“Ouch. Ten pounds? I expect it’s enough to put you off sex for the rest of your life. Oh, I don’t mean you,” I babble. “I meant—” Oh, God, I didn’t mean to mention sex. Why did I have to go and mention sex? Because, of course, all I can think about now is kissing Dr. Love, I mean Dr. Luke, in Piccadilly Circus.
There is an awkward silence on my part, and sardonic amusement on his part, and in desperation I take another gulp of my gin and tonic and study the bar. It has a lovely finish….
“Yes, well, it’s surprising how the memory of the pain fades. My high respect for women and their endurance has certainly gone up inestimably since entering the field,” he tells me, and I sigh with relief that my sex gaffe has slipped by. “Even more so, as they mostly go on to have completely normal sex lives again, afterwards. Which is fortunate for the human race,” he says. “And for men, in general, of course.”
“Well, yes,” I babble, because his expression has me on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I think this man is flirting with me. “Especially as men need to have sex twenty-one times a month to help with prostate cancer avoidance—I mean, it’s medically proven, isn’t it?”
Oh. My. Fuck. What is coming out of my mouth? I’m going to burst into flames any moment now. Or die of embarrassment.
“And I’m sure that men across the land are rejoicing at that one,” he grins at me. “So how are you connected to the happy couple?” he asks, rescuing me again.
“I’m Flora’s cousin.” I grab the new topic of conversation with relief. “And you?”
“I work with Ned.”
“Of course you do, I should have guessed immediately,” I babble, again. I must try not to babble. “I mean, he’s an obstetrician, you’re an obstetrician, it makes perfect sense that you’d, you know, know him—”
“Well, it’s a strangely small—the world of delivering babies,” he says, as I think what a small place is the world of parties, and how happy I am that it is so small, because otherwise I wouldn’t have seen him again.
“God, it’s a good thing the world is small, otherwise we wouldn’t have bumped into each other again,” he adds. I think he’s psychic. I also think he’s definitely flirting with me!
God, what do I do?
“Um, would you like a drink?” I ask, trying for coquettish, but I’m sure that I’m grinning like a fool. And when he grins back at me, I wonder if I have lipstick on my teeth. Or food between them.
What am I doing? Why on earth would he want to have a drink with me?
“Well, no—”
“Of course you don’t want a drink, hahaha.” I leap straight back in to emphasize that I am so not flirting with him. “Sorry—of course you need to get back to your, um, table.”
Handsome, dangerous doctors like Luke don’t have problems getting dates for these kinds of functions. Hell, they don’t find it hard to get a date for any occasion. And although I know I’m looking my best, I’m suddenly stricken by the remembrance of the beautiful blond at the Christmas fund-raiser, and my confidence fails.
“I was going to say ‘nothing alcoholic, but a cola would be nice, because I’m on call,’ ” he says. “And I don’t think the table will miss me, somehow. It’s just like all the other tables. It never writes, it never calls…” He raises a sardonic eyebrow, and I can’t help but laugh.
“You’re doing that thing again,” I say, charmed.
“My apologies.” He smoothes his eyebrow. “It has a life of its own, I’m afraid. Soooo…If you’re sure your boyfriend can spare you for a few minutes, I’d love that cola. I’m—glad to see it all worked out for you with him,” he adds. And I’m confused, because I’m totally enthralled.
“Which particular boyfriend did you mean?” I ask him.
“I have a choice?”
“Of two, on this particular evening,” I say.
“God—you’re joking.”
“I wish. I’m being tortured with exes. They both have a connection to Flora and Ned. At this point i
n the day, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jack Cooper, whom I snogged behind the bike shed in tenth grade, turned out to be Ned’s distant cousin twice removed.”
“Lucky Jack,” Luke says, and my face gets hotter. In fact, every atom in my body is pretty well boiling.
I hadn’t meant to mention snogging, either, because of course now my eyes are totally drawn to Luke’s mouth and I want to kiss him again.
“That guy—Jonathan? The one from Christmas. I saw him in the men’s room earlier, and I just assumed you were here with him—”
“Oh. Jonathan. No, definitely not my boyfriend anymore,” I tell him quickly. “We split up the day after—” I wantonly threw myself at you in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, I nearly say, but don’t. “The fund-raiser.”
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” he says. But he doesn’t look sorry at all.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Well, it was a bit of a shock, at first—”
“On account of him having the bad manners to turn up at your cousin’s engagement party,” he finishes the sentence for me. “Very bad mannered of him. But also, possibly as a means of reminding you of what you’re missing, thereby instilling in you a burning desire to get back with him,” he says, and I wonder if he’s fishing for information about whether I’d like to get back with Jonathan. “Unless, of course, he is a distant relation of Ned’s.”
“In a way. He didn’t mean to. Turn up, I mean. His new girlfriend brought him. You probably know her, she’s a colleague of Ned’s—Samantha.”
“Oh, dear. Yes, I do—nice woman. Excellent midwife. You probably didn’t need to know that—sorry to rub it in.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly the highlight of my evening, bumping into him.”
“But it’s the highlight of mine, bumping into you again,” he tells me, and I shiver at the expression in his eyes.
And despite the fact that I have sworn off men, I am thinking that Luke, although he will probably break my heart, might be the exception to make me break my no-man rule.
“No cheesy comments allowed, Doc,” I say but don’t really mean, because I’m secretly pleased, but also secretly terrified, that he doesn’t mean it.
“None intended,” he says, then adds, “I meant it.”
Oh, be still my beating heart! A change of subject is definitely in order. Things are just going too fast.
“So, tell me about your latest table,” I say, to try to (a) lighten the intensity, because yes, I am a coward, and (b) to ascertain just if he has a date, or a girlfriend, or a wife, which would be a tragedy, but he actually hasn’t said. In fact, he knows rather a lot more about me than I do about him.
So it’s a bit of a disappointment when Charlie comes dashing across the bar with his cell phone in his hand before Luke can answer me.
“Darling, he called. He called. And after all that worrying.” Charlie, all flustered excitement, grabs me, kisses me on the mouth, then steals my drink and knocks back the rest of my gin and tonic in one swallow.
“Charlie—”
“He left me a lovely, long message—he’s missing me already and wants to know if I’m free for a date tomorrow night. What do you think? Too soon to call him back? Too available if I say yes to tomorrow night?”
Whilst I’m delighted to see that Charlie has finally glued his heart back together sufficiently to dip his toe in the dating pond to risk getting it smashed again, I am a bit irritated, because I am just about to jump in headfirst and risk my own.
What a horrible friend I am, I think, squashing my frustration. I must remember my earlier conviction about helping friends in order to be happy.
“Well, on the one hand—” I begin.
“Why, hel-lo,” Charlie says as he notices Luke for the first time. I know that tone of voice. It’s his big-brother, who-are-you, and are-you-good-enough-for-our-Rosie tone of voice. It also has overtones of “God, what a lovely hunky man you are.”
“Charlie Blake,” he says, holding out a hand. “One of lovely Rosie’s dearest friends, and also co-owner of Odd Jobs. And you are? Apart from Mr. Utterly Gorgeous, of course,” Charlie adds. “Not that I’m interested; I already have my own Mr. Utterly Gorgeous. Or nearly, at any rate.”
“It’s not Mr. Utterly Gorgeous,” I say before I can stop the words from running out of my mouth. “It’s Dr. Utterly Gorgeous, I mean, Dr. Luke Benton,” I correct myself, trying to regain lost ground.
“It’s a delight to meet you,” Luke says, his eyebrow going up as he glances across at me. My nerves thrum at the promise of “later” in his eyes.
“Ah, I always did love a man in a white coat with a stethoscope,” Charlie grins. “Interesting that you’re a doctor, because our Rosie here had a bit of a thing about—”
“Thanks, Charlie,” I jump in before Charlie can push his foot any further down my metaphorical, yet embarrassed, throat. “Sorry, Luke, you’ll have to forgive my usually calm, self-possessed friend here—he’s just had a large dose of love gin and tonic after a long drought.”
“Looks like I’m not the only one,” Charlie says, and I glare at him.
“Back to your question,” I tell him. “I think definitely no games. But also definitely go slowly—you only met him last night,” I say wisely. Oh, how I should listen to my own advice, because the way I’m feeling at the moment I could do something very rash with Luke. “If you want to go out with Lewis tomorrow night,” I add sagely, “then why invent a previous arrangement? Why play games? Just be straightforward and up front.”
“Just thinking about him makes me, you know, very up front,” Charlie grins evilly, and then to Luke, “Sorry, Doc, that’s probably more information than you wanted about a complete stranger.”
“No worries,” Luke tells him, grinning back. And just as I am relaxing, as much as it is possible to relax with all the heat and sexual frustration I am currently experiencing, about the fact that Luke is fine about Charlie, because you never know with straight men how they will react to your gay best friend, he ups my anxiety even more.
“I know what you mean about the really up front part,” Luke says, and my toes blush. I have to stop myself from letting my eyes wander downward to check out how up front he might actually be. And then, in that totally charming way of his, just as the conversation is getting hotter by the moment, he teases me by completely changing the subject.
“So, what is it that you actually do?” he asks us both, and I wonder if he does it on purpose to heighten tension. It’s certainly working.
“Odd Jobs,” Charlie tells him. “You know, you need an exporn star to take care of your rich kitty, or a drag act, or a bridge painter, we’re your people.”
“Two large gin and tonics,” I say to the bartender, because I feel the need for alcohol to blunt the sexual tension. “And a cola for the sardonic eyebrow.”
“Sorry,” he says.
“I think it’s charming,” Charlie tells him earnestly.
“Thank you. But Odd Jobs. That sounds fascinating. Where did you two meet? How did you come up with such an original idea?” Luke asks, sounding genuinely interested and impressed. Which makes a change, because all of my previous boyfriends thought it was a totally mad idea and refused to take it seriously.
Not that Luke is, or is ever going to be, my boyfriend, of course.
“In the students’ union bar at college,” Charlie takes the lead, also taking a sip of his gin and tonic. “We bonded over a shared love of Donny Osmond, Simon le Bon and drag acts. Love at first sight. Although in a sister-sister kind of way,” Charlie continues.
“Of course,” Luke says, dead seriously. “Although Donny and Simon never rang my bells, I did develop a deep and passionate love for drag after first seeing Roxanne and the Rockettes.”
“My, God, now that’s a talented group.” Charlie is impressed.
“Aren’t they just?” Luke shakes his head. “Tell me, did you ever see Sisters Wedge doing ‘It’s Raining Men’?”
I’m pret
ty impressed myself. I mean, not every straight man is comfortable with drag, and I wonder if there’s something that he’s not sharing with us. He cannot be gay. If I’ve misread all his flirting, and his kissing, and have got it wrong all along, I will have to kill myself from embarrassment.
“Is there something you’re not sharing with us here?” Charlie asks the question. “Do you have a closet you need to come out of?”
“No, not at all,” Luke laughs.
“Well, that’s a crime for the gay community,” Charlie tells him earnestly. And then, “Although not for Rosie,” and I scowl at him.
“Well, I hope so,” Luke says, smiling at me, and then he does that thing of his. Just as my knees are melting, he totally changes the subject. “One of my interns and his partner decided to make a life-commitment declaration to each other, and they thought that if straight couples could have engagement parties and wedding celebrations, then so could they. Which is how I was introduced to drag. Which leads back to you and Rosie, and how you met,” Luke prompts Charlie, and I can see that his interest really is genuine.
Unless he’s just trying to field personal questions….
“I was in my final year of a media communications degree, I’d already begun to dip my toes into the world of drag. You know—wanted to do something more exciting with my life than working for a huge, faceless conglomerate, and I’d arranged for a new, up-and-coming drag act to perform that night.”
“I was the events coordinator,” I say.
“Rosie, our very reliable gal, was studying business studies. She needed a bit of a shake-up,” Charlie says.
“I did not,” I tell him. “That’s a bit unfair. I know how to take a risk when the occasion demands it.” Luke gives me one of his intense stares, and I wonder if I should take a risk on him.
“So you decided to do it in real life, too?” he asks, and I wonder if he means my taking a chance on him in real life, as well as in my daydreams.
Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 13
