Sweet Fate, Page 5

  But was that appropriate? Was that what friends did? There wasn’t anyone in my life that I did those things with. Did I have no friends?

  By Thursday, I was willing to interfere with her so-called kismet. I left work early to walk the banks at St. James’s Park, hoping to re-create our union. When I didn’t see her, I tried again Friday. I came earlier, I stayed later. Still, no sign of her.

  Saturday night crept upon me, and I had a rare gig with the cover band I sometimes played with. We were barely a band, really. We’d been playing together so long now, we didn’t need to rehearse. Sometimes Ian would throw in a new song last minute, but it was never too hard to pick up. I played the electric bass. It was an easy instrument, and I could fake most numbers if I didn’t know them.

  Though we only had shows about once every three or four weeks, playing with Thrashheads was one of the more enjoyable aspects of my life. It was a chance to tune out and relax. A chance to forget about work and teenage sons and ex-wives while I got lost in the chord progressions of the greats—Judas Priest, Metallica, Slayer, Zeppelin.

  Saturday’s show was in South Belgravia, a section of town that I’m sure Audrey’s meme map would call the Decent Pub Dead Zone. The food at the bar was lousy, the service was worse. The crowd, though, was engaged. They were gracious with their applause and sang along to some of the more popular Black Sabbath tunes. It was my kind of gig, my kind of audience. A bunch of old farts born prior to 1979 who still thought old metal was the best kind of rock. Wrinkles and grey hair decorated the faces of almost everyone in the pub, and still I looked for Audrey, as if she’d come to a bar like this. As if she’d stay for a band like ours.

  When we were cleaning up, I watched my bandmates with new eyes. We’d played together for almost five years, yet we never went out together. We didn’t “hang.” I didn’t even know where Russell or Dennis lived. I didn’t know Clancy’s last name, or if Clancy was his last name. I didn’t know these men at all.

  “Are we friends?” I asked Ian, the lead singer and guitarist of the band. Ian wasn’t his real name, I knew that. It was Johnny, but he had an eternal hard-on for Deep Purple, and had taken the name of the lead singer in honor.

  “Yeah, mate.” Ian stared at me as though I’d asked him if Ozzy Osbourne was the best. “What else would we be?”

  I shrugged. “People who play together in a band?”

  He tilted his head and studied me. “Is there a difference?”

  I shook my head, because I didn’t know, obviously.

  The rest of the weekend passed. Monday arrived, and my phone was still silent. Again I went to the park, this time with an umbrella in hand since the rain had returned. I stood at the water’s edge and watched the lake break up with each splash of water, watched the increase of activity as the rain quieted and the fish came up to the surface to eat the worms that had been uncovered in the storm.

  I felt like one of those fish, a creature that dwelled in the deep dark, only coming out of my sanctuary when baited. And then, how vulnerable and exposed I was in the translucent shallow water. On exhibition and bare to the elements.

  I went home, taking the first taxi I found. I didn’t return to look for Audrey at the park again.

  Were we friends?

  On Tuesday, after the office was closed and almost everyone had gone home but me and Amy, I was still thinking about my social life, or lack thereof. “Do you have any friends?” I asked her.

  “Besides you?” Her brow wrinkled and she tugged at a corkscrew curl while she thought about it. “I suppose there’s Dante. We work out together. And by work out, I mean we run on the treadmill for five minutes then go back to his house and bang like bunnies.”

  I frowned. “I don’t think that’s the definition of friends.” If it were, I would’ve accompanied Audrey home that night, and every night.

  “Oh really?” Amy thought for another moment. “What’s the point then?”

  So I didn’t text and I didn’t ring because, as Amy said, what was the point? And I tried not to think about Audrey, tried not to let her infiltrate my every waking moment, but it was hopeless. She was a cataract covering the lens of the eye—it was impossible to see the world without seeing her.

  Then, Friday came. I took a long time shutting down for the day, a futile attempt to make the workweek last longer. I’d begun to dread the weekends and their dreary monotony. Eventually, the cleaning crew arrived and there was nothing much for me to do.

  I put on my suit jacket and checked my mobile phone for the first time since lunch. There was finally a voice message from her.

  “Hey, it’s Audrey. I’m sorry to call out of the blue like this, but I need you! It’s an emergency. Can you call me right away?”

  I’d never pressed the RETURN CALL button so fast in my life. “Audrey! Are you hurt? Are you ill?” I didn’t even bother with the greeting, I was so anxious to discover her ailment, so eager to help. “Do you need me to come to you?”

  “Dylan! It’s you! Thank you for calling back.” She didn’t sound nearly as exasperated as she’d been in the message. “And I’m fine. It’s not that kind of emergency. Sorry to panic you!”

  “Then you don’t need me after all.” I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

  “No, I do need you. It’s just not life or death—I have a tendency to be dramatic. But it is important. Very important. To me, anyway.”

  Relieved then. I’d feel relieved. And also, while she chattered on, I couldn’t help but remember the last time I’d been on the phone with her, when the thing she needed was of a carnal nature. Would this call go in the same direction? Was I a monster for wishing it would?

  “Let me hear it.” I leaned back in my chair and loosened my tie.

  “First, I’m dreadfully sorry I’m asking this so late, but see, the thing is, the museum is having a fundraiser tomorrow night. It’s a big fundraiser, a really important one, and each of us is expected to bring at least one guest who might donate. And there really isn’t very many people that I know besides you. There’s Lawrence, but I’m afraid his tattoos won’t go over so well with my boss, not since he got the ones covering his face, anyway, and Betty said she’d go, but she’s homeless. And she looks it. There’s no way anyone’s going to believe that she could give a dollar to our cause. Er, a pound, I guess it is. And Percy has another obligation, so he doesn’t think he’ll make it. And I know it’s really a big favor to ask, the kind that crosses the line—”

  “I’ll come,” I said, cutting her off. Was there really any other choice?

  “You will? You can’t know what this means to me. Thank you. Thank you! It’s tomorrow, though. Is that going to work? Can you get a tux? I really wouldn’t bother with any of this if I didn’t think I needed to make a good impression on my boss.”

  “Yes, I’m free tomorrow night. And I own a tux. I’ll be there.” Joyfully. With bells on.

  She could tell me more about Lawrence and Percy then, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Facial tattoos? I shuddered. And who was this homeless Betty person she was milling about with?

  “You’re free! It’s—”

  “Don’t say it,” I warned. I didn’t want to hear that K word again. Not after this last week and a half.

  “Not saying it doesn’t make it any less true,” she said coyly. “But fine. I’m glad you’re available. It’s convenient. And thank you again. I can’t say it enough. I mean it. I’m overflowing with gratitude. And I don’t expect you to donate anything. In fact, please don’t. It would be utterly humiliating for me if you thought that I only wanted you as a friend for your cash resources. All I need is someone who looks like he’ll donate, and you very much do.”

  Her concern for my pocketbook was adorable. “I can be charitable. Especially to a good cause, such as art.”

  “No, I mean it, Dylan. I will die. Please.”

  “All right then,” I acquiesced. “I won’t even bring my checkbook.”

 
I brought my checkbook.

  It seemed rude to show up to such a thing without it, and if the museum needed funding, I was happy to oblige. Because I liked good art, of course. I was often philanthropic with my money. It didn’t have to be about Audrey in the least.

  We decided to meet at the Gallery, though that hadn’t been my first choice. I’d offered to pick her up. I didn’t regularly use a hired car when I was home in London, but I did own an automobile that I rarely used, and it wasn’t difficult to obtain a driver, even on short notice. But Audrey insisted that I didn’t go to the trouble.

  So there I was, entering the familiar museum with the exhilaration of a first-timer, knowing soon I’d see the most beautiful works of art in the world.

  “May I see your invitation, sir?”

  I raised my eyebrows at the door attendant, thrown off by the expectation of something I did not have.

  “I...hmm.” I stalled as I scanned the room behind him, searching for my “ticket” in. “I’m here as a guest of a member of staff?” I hadn’t quite meant it to sound like a question, but I wasn’t sure enough to let it be a statement.

  “Ah,” the gentleman said. He opened the binder in front of him. “Then you’ll be on the list.”

  I opened my mouth to deliver my name, when all of a sudden, there she was, swooping in to my rescue.

  “It’s okay, Cameron,” she said, slipping her arm through mine. “This is Dylan. He’s with me.”

  My heart stuttered. How long had it been since I’d been with somebody? It wasn’t as terribly awful as I remembered, hearing her say it now.

  Cameron checked off some line in his binder and let us in. Though we walked together, Audrey was the one in the lead, directing me past the crowd of donors that always huddled at the front of these sorts of things into the emptier center of the room.

  As always, she prattled as we walked. “It’s really busy already. I had no idea there would be so many people here. I’ve been to a couple of these before—one at the last museum that I interned for in Delaware. That was really nothing like this at all. Half of the guests were in jeans. And there was another for a library museum in Pennsylvania that I happened to get an invitation to. Also not the same. Neither museum really had any art worth funding, for one thing, and even if there was, they weren’t the kind of places to draw attention from donors with deep pockets. Here’s a good spot to people-watch. Let me look at you.”

  She stopped suddenly and put her hands up as if to keep me in place while she took two steps backwards. Then she threw her hand over her heart and exclaimed, “Dylan! Swoon!” She actually said the word swoon. The lilt in her voice and the way she moved her body put emphasis on the word. “You are absolutely magnificent in a tux,” she continued, then bit her bottom lip as if to contain herself from saying more. “I can barely stand it.”

  She was the magnificent one, dressed again in the deep red gown she’d worn at her sister’s wedding.

  I told her, too. “And you truly look stunning, Audrey.” My tone was light as I said it, not because I didn’t mean it, but because she took my breath away. Always. Always.

  She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s super tacky to wear a formal twice, but I figured you’re the only one here who would know.” She put a finger to her lips. “Shh. Don’t tell a soul.”

  “Not a word.”

  And I winked. Me—winking. I’d truly lost my head now.

  If she noticed, she didn’t let on. She took my arm again and perused the crowd around us. “I’ll tell you who I know. The list isn’t long. That woman, over there, with the sharp features and the brocade top? That’s Etta, our marketing consultant. And the man next to her is Silas. He’s my supervisor. He’s in charge of conserving all the Raphael works. Can you believe that? Raphael! He’s personally worked on St. John of the Baptist Preaching and the Mackintosh Madonna. I was dying just to be in the same room with them, and he got to touch them and look at them under the magnifying glass. Dead, I tell you.”

  I barely had time to agree before she was drawing me deeper into the museum.

  “Over there to the right, the short one with the ridiculously large bosom? That’s Sasha. She’s an art handler, which is basically a fancy way of saying assistant.” She lowered her voice as if the next part was a secret. “She barely makes more than I do, and I’m at the bottom of the heap. Oh, and the guy over there, the one talking to that dorky little guy with the tan suit?”

  I looked over at the men. “By ‘dorky little guy’ you mean the Speaker of the House of Commons?”

  She giggled as she blushed. “I just called the Speaker of the House of Commons a dork? I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. It’s rather accurate.”

  She stayed pink though. “Well, the Speaker of the House of Commons is talking to Mr. Cavendish. No one knows what Mr. Cavendish does, no one knows what his first name is. He insists on being called Mr. Cavendish. I reckon he’s really important though, because how can you insist on being called anything otherwise?”

  That did seem reasonable. “And also,” I added, “he is speaking to one of the most prominent dorks in England.”

  “Yes,” she giggled again at my joke, making my chest feel warm. “That too.”

  Instantly, she had me in tow again, her eyes searching frantically around the room. “Somewhere around here is Jana. She’s my boss. We need her to see us—or you, at least. I think she thought I was making you up when I said I had someone to add to the guest list this morning. It was too late to tell her last night. I have to show her you’re not a figment of my imagination. Just, where is she…?”

  Audrey was running herself—both of us, actually—in circles. I guessed she was nervous, and why shouldn’t she be? It was her first big job, her first big event, and certainly she wanted to make a good impression.

  I presumed that would be easier if she were just a touch calmer.

  “Excuse me, one second, would you Audrey?” I stepped away before she could stop me, and headed to the nearest waiter. I retrieved two glasses of champagne from his tray, then returned to the girl I had left waiting. “Drink this,” I ordered. “You’ll feel better. Trust me.”

  “I’m being a little much, aren’t I?” She took a sip, though, as I’d asked.

  “Never,” I said. Because it was true—she was never much, as far as I was concerned. She was always much more.

  She didn’t look like she necessarily believed me, but she took another sip of the champagne, followed by a deep breath. Then another. And a third. Then she knocked the remainder of the glass back, and smiled brightly. “Better now.”

  I took a swallow from my own glass so that I wouldn’t grin more than was appropriate, although I feared I was already failing.

  Since I was already acting like an infatuated dolt, it seemed like the best time to continue making a fool of myself and expose my jealousy. “You’ve made other friends in London, according to what you said the other day. Good friends, I hope?”

  She scrunched her face up as she tried to figure out what I was referring to.

  “You mentioned a Percy and a Betty. And Leonard?” It was Lawrence. I hadn’t forgotten. I just wanted her to think I had.

  “Oh, yes! I’ve met so many awesome people since I’d gotten here, it’s hard to keep them all straight. Betty is amazing. She’s this woman who lives on the street between my house and the tube stop. I bring her a sandwich every day.” She frowned suddenly. “Except not on the weekends. I didn’t even think about the weekends! I have to bring her one tomorrow and apologize for forgetting about today. Maybe I’ll bring extras next Friday.”

  It was both moving and adorable how she felt responsible for this woman, as if she’d adopted her like a stray cat. Her concern for this new friend was an admirable trait, one I definitely didn’t possess at her age. I wasn’t certain that I possessed it now.

  “And Lawrence, not Leonard, is a bartender at the pub down the street from here. He makes the best mixed drin
ks. I never know the names. I always ask him to surprise me. I mean, I’m not a lush or anything. It’s just fun to go out after work every once in a while, even by myself. I like to study the people while I’m unwinding.”

  I could imagine this. Could picture her, all this time, going to a pub after finishing her job. Times she could’ve texted me to join her. Times I could have offered to take her to the best pubs in the city. That was something friends did, wasn’t it? Was she as awkward at this new relationship label as I was or did she simply never think of inviting me?

  “And Percy,” she looked away. Purposefully? “He’s an artist who lives in my building. He…He likes me, I think. He’s asked me out a couple of times, but it’s just never happened.” Finally, she met my eyes. “But maybe I should take him up on the offer. What do you think?”

  I thought she should never be with anyone but me. Because I was selfish and obsessed.

  It wasn’t fair to her because I didn’t want her. Not really. Not the way she wanted to be wanted.

  I cleared my throat, and attempted not to be the greedy asshole that I was. “I don’t know the man, but you did say you wanted to date. If he’s someone that you think could possibly be that special guy…” It was really hard not to cringe as I spoke. “Then I say go for it.”

  She sighed, and when she spoke she almost sounded disappointed. “You’re right. I did say that. I’ll think about it.”

  And I’d think about it too. Much more than I should.

  “Oh my word!” she exclaimed suddenly, peering over my shoulder. “Carefully, carefully, look behind you. Dena—she’s another intern. She’s as nervous about keeping her job as I am, so she told me she was going to hire an actor to play a rich donor since she doesn’t know anybody in town. And oh my gosh, who she hired is fantastically ridiculous.”

  I turned to look behind me.

  “Carefully!” she warned with a hiss. “Don’t make it look like you’re looking.”

  I took another swallow of my drink and turned as casually as possible. I saw who she meant immediately. The man wore a traditional tuxedo, complete with a top hat and cane. The mustache he sported was pure white, and if we could see under the hat, I suspected he was balding. He looked like a fraud, like a caricature, an exaggerated imitation of a rich man stereotype.