by Dani Atkins
‘Pardon?’
‘Just how dirty are we talking here?’ she asked, before waving her arms excitedly as a new thought occurred to her. ‘Oh, is it with Paul?’
‘Who’s Paul?’
‘The really fit guy from the post room, you know, the one with the body like a Diet Coke ad model.’
I shook my head, feeling like I’d accidentally stepped over into an alternate universe. It was difficult to know which of the many wrong tangents Karen was going down that I needed to correct first.
‘Firstly, I have no idea who this Paul person is. And secondly, I didn’t say “rude”, I said “wooed”.’
Karen flopped back against the worn grey fabric of her office chair and looked seriously disappointed for a moment, before considering what I’d said and deciding it was still way more interesting than whatever she’d been working on before I interrupted her.
She nodded to her colleague’s vacant chair. ‘Eric’s in a meeting,’ she explained, ‘sit down and tell me everything.’
I folded on to the chair and rolled it a little closer to hers, although I don’t think anyone – apart from her – was in the slightest bit interested in my love life. ‘Well, it started with the flowers – a beautiful bunch of twelve gerberas that were waiting on my desk a couple of weeks ago when I got back from lunch. After that came the chocolates, a box of twenty of those tiny Belgian white ones, which weirdly hardly anyone knows are my particular favourites, and then—’
‘Oh my God, you really haven’t inherited anything from your mother, have you? I don’t want an inventory, I want a story. Who’s sending you this stuff?’
I thought about making her wait for my answer, because her comment about my mother had stung a little. But what was the point in having news if you weren’t going to share it? ‘Well, that’s just it. To begin with I truly had no idea. There was no card with either of the first two deliveries.’
‘Then how did they get to your desk?’
‘I guess someone from the post room must have brought them up,’ I hazarded.
‘Maybe Paul?’ said Karen hopefully, still clearly fixated on the mail delivery guy.
I gave a small secretive smile, as I leant a little closer towards her. ‘I actually had a sneaking suspicion who they might be from, but it wasn’t until the third delivery arrived last week that I was almost certain.’
‘What was the third delivery?’
‘A litre bottle of Evian with a gift tag attached saying Drink me.’
‘God, I hope you didn’t,’ Karen interjected. ‘Who knows what could have been put in it.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘Honestly, do you really not read anything apart from the FT?’ was her head-shaking reply.
I leant back in my chair and frowned, still disappointed with my friend’s reaction. ‘The water hadn’t been tampered with, and nor had the chocolates. And anyway, by the time the theatre tickets arrived, I was confident I knew who was sending them.’
‘Please tell me you didn’t go to the theatre to meet some random secret admirer, who could have been an axe murderer, for all you knew.’
‘What is it with you and axe murderers?’
Karen shook her head, making her look a little like a dishevelled dog with a troublesome ear. ‘Suzanne, if you don’t tell me who this mystery man is, there’s a good chance you won’t live long enough to be wooed or rude.’
‘It’s Darrell,’ I said simply, and although I tried really hard to stop it, somehow a huge grin spread itself across my face.
‘Who is Darrell?’
‘The guy I met when I went to that conference three weeks ago.’
‘The bloke you took up to your room? The one who could have been a sex offender?’ she asked, her voice unfortunately loud enough to carry to the people working on the next bank of desks. A few of them looked up, and I felt a hot blush colour my cheeks.
‘The guy who was actually a perfect gentleman, who bought me drinks and then escorted me safely to the door of my room,’ I corrected firmly. There must have been something in my voice that alerted my old friend that this particular running gag was now long past its expiry date.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sounding contrite, and yet somehow still quite concerned.
‘So the man you met in the bar has somehow tracked down where you work – and we’ll ignore for now how borderline stalker-ish that is; he’s bombarded you with presents and arranged for you to meet him at the theatre? It’s all a little intense, don’t you think?’
For someone who’d been quite happy to see me paired up with the mailman a few minutes ago, I was a little disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm, and I couldn’t help wondering if she wasn’t just a tiny bit jealous. I’d certainly heard her complain more than once about the lack of romance or spontaneity in her own long-term relationship.
‘It wasn’t intense. It was actually rather lovely. We went out last night and had a really amazing evening.’
It was impossible to stay mad at Karen; we’d been friends for far too long. Although I was still bristling a little when Eric appeared to reclaim his chair a few moments later.
‘Let’s talk some more about this over lunch,’ Karen had suggested, returning her attention reluctantly to her screen.
I nodded and slipped away, already knowing that the steaks in the restaurant where we’d chosen to meet wouldn’t be the only thing to receive a grilling that lunchtime.
*
It had taken quite a few double dates, and interrogations worthy of a Spanish inquisitor, before Karen had given Darrell her seal of approval. To be fair, no one could have tried harder than he did whenever we’d gone out together as a foursome. Darrell was charming, funny and always first at the bar to buy a round of drinks, or trying to discreetly settle the bill without splitting it. But none of that impressed Karen. What swung it in the end was something far simpler. ‘It’s the way he looks at you,’ she had admitted, as we wandered around the shops together one lunchtime. ‘The expression in his eyes when you walk towards him. The way he stares intently at your face whenever you speak. And how he laughs at your jokes, even when you screw up the punchline – which you do quite a lot, by the way.’
I had smiled, while absent-mindedly fingering the price tag of some silky lingerie, trying to decide if Darrell would like me in – or out – of it.
Karen had looked at me, at the vaguely dreamy expression in my eyes and then at the garment swinging on its tiny hanger from my finger. ‘You’re really starting to fall for him, aren’t you?’
I felt my cheeks flush, like a teenager, as I nodded. ‘I think I might be,’ I confessed.
‘Even though it’s all been so fast, and there’s still so much about him you don’t know?’
‘I know all that I need to. I know how he makes me feel.’
Karen shook her head as she followed me to the queue at the till. ‘What about that crazy ex-girlfriend of his, the one he never wants to talk about?’
I handed over my card and waited as the shop assistant folded the silken garment and began wrapping it in crimson-coloured tissue paper. ‘So he doesn’t want to talk about her. So what? You can hardly blame him for that. It was obviously a pretty ugly and traumatic break-up. Of all people, I can respect his right not to want to share every last detail of his past with the rest of the world.’
Karen made a small sound of disapproval, which may or may not have been because she’d just seen how much I’d paid for a tiny scrap of lace frippery. ‘Having a famous author for a mother doesn’t exactly count as having a dark and mysterious past – which, incidentally, I still don’t know why you insist on keeping secret. If she was my mum, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops.’
She bit her lip, as though tasting the words she was about to deliver next, already knowing how unpalatable I was going to find them. ‘If you and Darrell are serious, if this thing is really going somewhere, those are questions you have a right to ask. You know there are two sides to
any relationship break-up. Darrell could be at least partly responsible for things ending so toxically.’ She said the last hesitantly, already knowing it would put a grim and determined set on my lips. She was absolutely right, it did.
‘I just don’t want you to end up being the next Mrs Bluebeard,’ Karen had muttered as we emerged from the shop and began to head back towards our office building. ‘I know Darrell seems like the perfect boyfriend right now – and hell, what do I know, maybe he is every bit as wonderful as he seems – but I bet you anything his old girlfriend has a completely different take on whatever happened between them.’
I pressed the button on the pedestrian crossing, and frowned at the little red man who was telling me to stay put, because I really wanted to keep walking and leave Karen’s voice of reason back on the pavement behind me.
‘Sometimes in life you just have to trust your instincts,’ I said firmly, making it clear that the mysterious girlfriend in Darrell’s past was a subject that was no longer up for discussion. ‘Right now I’m happier than I’ve been in years. Can’t you just share that with me?’
Karen looked torn, but in the end, what bound her to me was stronger than all of her doubts or suspicions. She linked her arm through mine as the green man appeared. ‘Of course I can, hon.’
*
My mother was an altogether harder nut to crack. More of a resilient Brazil than a pliable pecan. Even now, on the day she had totally surprised me by paying the balance on my wedding dress, the light of doubt was still in her eyes. She might have dialled down the dimmer, but I could still see it glimmering in the darkness in the small bistro where we’d gone for lunch.
‘Perhaps I should just have something light,’ she said, perusing the menu, ‘as we’re going out for dinner tonight.’
‘I think the place Darrell’s chosen is all about artfully garnished plates and minute portions,’ I said, trying not to notice the thought bubble that had popped up above my mother’s head with the word pretentious floating in it. ‘It’s the kind of place where you pop into McDonald’s on the way home because you’re still absolutely starving.’ My mother’s eyes met and held mine. ‘He’s just trying to impress you,’ I added hopefully.
‘I stopped being impressed by any man’s over-the-top flamboyant gestures a great many years ago,’ my mother said. I already knew exactly where this sentence was heading. ‘Your father saw to that.’
Thankfully, we were interrupted by a young, fresh-faced waitress, who popped up enthusiastically beside our table, wielding her small order pad like a radar speed gun. ‘Have you ladies decided yet, or do you need a little longer?’
‘I’d like the pasta, please,’ I said, passing the waitress my menu.
‘And I’ll have the chicken salad,’ my mother declared, after running a quick eye down the list of options.
I thought of the dress I’d left behind at Fleurs, the one I wouldn’t be seeing again until the day of my wedding, and wondered if I should change my order. The dress had fitted me perfectly, leaving no margin to either gain or lose weight. I shook my head and allowed the tiny concern to tumble back behind far larger and more troubling ones. The dress was practically the only thing about the wedding that wasn’t bothering me.
‘So, you do know that Dad is arriving back in the country at the end of the week?’
My mother’s smile, which was still sitting on her lips for the waitress, froze slowly by degrees. It was like watching a barometer drop. ‘I suppose that means you haven’t had a last-minute change of heart about inviting him?’
It was, almost word for word, exactly the same question Darrell had asked several weeks earlier. Ironically, on this one aspect of the wedding, my mother and fiancé were in total agreement.
‘Whatever has happened in the past, he is still my father. I know he’s missed many milestones in my life, and I’m not saying that I can ever totally forgive him for that, but not inviting him to my wedding, not even giving him a chance to be part of the day, would just feel… wrong. I want both of my parents to be there.’
Of course, the moment I’d said those words to Darrell, I instantly wanted to rewind time and take them back. My thoughtlessness made me feel absolutely terrible. Because of that stupid and mysterious feud he’d had with his parents, hardly anyone from Darrell’s family was planning on attending our wedding. Even worse, practically all of his old friends were apparently still in contact with his ex, so they weren’t coming either, out of loyalty to her.
‘Don’t you think, if you reached out to your parents, this would be a perfect time to heal the old wounds and put all of this behind you?’ I had suggested gently, working largely in the dark, because I still had no idea what on earth could have happened to cause such a seemingly unbridgeable rift. But whenever I brought up the topic, Darrell’s shoulders would stiffen and a lockjaw expression would immobilise his face. There was so much anger and pain in whatever had happened between them that I always stepped rapidly back from it, as though I was teetering on the edge of a chasm I could easily fall into.
There was no pain in my mother’s expression at the mention of her former husband, just the kind of bristling irritation you might feel towards a wasp that keeps endlessly circling your outdoor picnic, threatening to ruin everything.
*
Despite adopting an air of nonchalance when telling Karen I’d been seeing someone, my entire relationship with Darrell had been one huge leap of faith. And in a way it still was. That first headlong jump into the unknown had been taken when I’d removed the single theatre ticket from its envelope and decided to meet the mystery man who’d been secretly pursuing me.
Like many single women, I’d been on my fair share of blind dates, yet this one felt different – perhaps a little more partially sighted than totally blind. Not unsurprisingly for me, I got to the theatre far too early. Darrell (or possibly, not Darrell at all) had scribbled a suggested meeting time on a small yellow Post-it note, stuck to the ticket: Meet me at 7.15 by the Box Office. There was nothing alarming about his handwriting; no red flags were raised by the steep backward slant of his letters, or the way his pen sliced boldly through the letter T. And yet every time I looked at the note, I felt a shiver of something I couldn’t quite name run down my spine.
There were plenty of people milling around the entrance to the theatre, couples and larger groups, but no single men. No Darrell. Would anyone go to the trouble of seeking out where I worked, sending me gifts, and then not show up? Rather than wait around to find out, I decided to go for a brisk ten-minute walk around the block. Flashback memories of being stood up at seventeen hadn’t faded with time, even though roughly fifteen years had passed since the night I’d been left standing alone outside the cinema, long after the film had begun. The experience had stayed with me far longer than the face or the name of the boy who’d changed his mind.
Only Darrell hadn’t stood me up.
By the time I once again approached the theatre, my pulse was racing, as though I’d sprinted around the block – which, in the heels I was wearing, would have been physically impossible. My nerves felt like violin strings, one peg-turn away from violently snapping. I could see someone standing there, waiting. A man. They had their back to me, and in the unnatural glare of the sodium street lights, it was impossible to see if his hair was the same shade as the man from the hotel. The man who’d bought me drinks, who’d made me feel amusing, interesting and – for the first time in quite a while – just a little bit sexy.
I felt sick and excited in equal measure. My footsteps slowed and then faltered to a stop. Even though I knew he couldn’t have heard the clip of my heels on the pavement, he suddenly straightened and spun towards me, as though I’d called his name. His smile was on maximum wattage even before he’d completed the 180-degree turn. His eyes were warm, and crinkling at the edges like sweet wrappers. He smiled with his entire face, and it was so open and genuine that every last nervous thought I’d been harbouring simply evaporated away.
I smiled and nodded, and allowed him to lead me up the three shallow marble steps to the theatre’s entrance. He held my hand all the way to our seats, and kept hold of it through the first half of the show. The gentle stroke of his thumb on the sensitive skin of my palm made it hard to concentrate on the performance, made even breathing naturally a new and interesting challenge.
Darrell was clearly a very tactile man; that much was obvious from the guiding hand resting in the small of my back as we climbed the stairs at the intermission and headed towards the bar. Once there, he again reached for my hand and wove us through the jostling crowds to a quiet corner where an ice bucket holding a bottle of champagne sat waiting. I looked at the small card with his name printed on it beside the two glass flutes.
‘You must have been fairly confident I was going to come,’ I said. There was something in his smile that made the breath catch in my throat. Several heads had turned our way at the sound of the popping cork, but suddenly it felt as if the bar was empty of everyone except the two of us.
‘Not at all,’ he confessed, pouring the champagne into the glasses without ever taking his eyes off my face. I knew without a doubt that if I’d done that, our shoes would now be splattered with alcohol, but he didn’t spill a single drop. He passed me a glass, and his voice was low and doing something really unexpected deep within my stomach. ‘I just knew that if you came, I’d want us to celebrate the moment, because it would be the night when something important had first begun.’
‘And if I hadn’t come?’ My voice was practically a whisper.
Darrell gave a small, sad shrug. ‘Then I’d definitely have needed this to console me for being the idiot who’d let you slip through his fingers.’
