Chapter Seven #2
As he continues to search in his bag, I push up a little and look around us.
Now the sun has gone, the crowd has dissipated even more.
There are plenty of free tables and the music being played has shifted tempo to a quicker, heavier beat.
I think about suggesting we move to a table but realise then I’m actually very happy where I am, pretending that the rest of the world doesn't exist.
I settle back into the lounger and look at him again. His bag is back on the ground and he’s now staring out at the sea with a contemplative look on his face. With my mission firmly in mind, I pick up our conversation again.
“So, I asked you to tell me about yourself, Marty. Tell me your likes, your dislikes, and what you want to do with this one wild and precious life,” I say. I know he's not going to get the Mary Oliver reference and I'm glad because it will make me sound a lot more poetic than I really am.
“Okay.” He nods and straightens up as if he’s just remembered where he is.
He has a quick sip of his drink before replying.
“My likes. Food, rugby, the gym, ABBA, cycling, my Dad’s barbeques, Queen - the band not the monarchy - the Thai beef salad this one woman made at a roadside stand in Chiang Mai, Elton John, pub lunches, sunsets, my Ma's apple crumble, the Bee Gees, hot buttered toast, fresh Colombian coffee, gosh, that's a lot of food...”
“And a lot of Seventies pop,” I add, but nod for him to continue.
“I think I’m done with my likes. No, wait.” He holds up a hand. “I need to add one to the list. Ankle bracelets.”
I follow the nod of his head and look down at the thin gold chain wrapped around my ankle, the one item of jewellery I never take off. Heat rushes down my body and makes me curl my toes. We both watch them flex.
Marty coughs. “Dislikes. Off the top of my head, cancer, watching or reading or listening to the news, One Direction, cancer, advertising, Bulgarian squats, stretching, wearing socks, cancer, stewed tea, people who don’t recycle, and yeah, cancer again.
Oh, and food snobs, which is tough being in my job. ”
“What did One Direction ever do to you?” I fake alarm. I didn’t miss how many times he mentioned cancer – and rightly, I’m sure – but I don’t really want to discuss it when I can’t stop thinking about what his long fingers would feel like inside my underwear.
“It’s a long story.” He looks away again.
“I agree about Bulgarian squats.” I steer us in a different direction. “And I stopped watching the news too, recently. Only ever had it on because of my ex-husband so when he left, I stuck to the documentaries and Nordic Noir shows I really wanted to watch.”
“Not rom-coms? I used to force my ex to watch them all the time.”
“That’s just cruel,” I say choosing not to dwell on how this talk of exes is unsettling me a little.
It’s hardly good foreplay. “Despite reading a lot of romance novels, I’m not a big fan of romantic movies.
Love a romance subplot but prefer the main storyline to have me guessing rather than giving me a predictable HEA. ”
“HEA?”
“Happy Ever After? You clearly only watch rom-coms, you don’t read them.”
“Clearly. But also, I wouldn’t know a HEA if it hit me around the head,” he jokes, but his smile is dimple-free.
“I think most Happy Ever Afters don’t do that. It’s possibly what makes them HEAs rather than GBH.”
He chuckles at that. “You’re a funny woman, Jenna.”
“And you didn’t answer the last part of my question.”
“Oh, what was it? I can’t even blame the booze for forgetting.
Sometimes my mind just drifts a bit...” he trails off.
There’s possibly more to this twenty-four-year old than an uncanny aptitude for flirting and good looks, but that’s not for me to think about.
Indeed, the less thinking the better. I want more doing.
“Your goals for this one wild and precious life?” I prompt him.
His eyes fall to his drink, and it's like his smile sinks into it too. “Mary Oliver,” he says.
“Yes.” I sound as surprised as I feel.
“You didn't think I'd know The Summer Day?”
“Holy shit, you know the name of the poem!” I don't even try to hide my shock.
“Now, now, Jenna. I know more than just how to make mocktails and flirt with hot older divorcées.”
“I should thump you for saying that.” I hold my fist up.
“Nah, you should thump me when I start calling you a cougar,” he chuckles.
“True. But seriously, how do you know about Mary Oliver?”
“I honestly don't. Not much. But I know that poem. My ex studied English Lit, wrote a bit of poetry.”
That word again is enough to silence me. Ex. I really don't want to talk about exes. I want to pretend that he materialised out of thin air in the hotel lobby and has no sexual past at all, only a present - with me.
But I know that’s unrealistic, and I know I need practise at this side of dating, so I risk meeting Marty where he’s at. “My ex studied economics, and never read a poem in his life. So, you win on the exes front.”
“Maybe we should shelve talking about exes,” he says, after blinking at the horizon a few times. “I mean, they should probably go in the fridge with my alcoholism, your divorce, and your age.”
“And your backpacking pal,” I say with a nod.
He dips his chin and gives me a different kind of smile, a little rueful and maybe even a little provocative. It’s a look that says, Catch up, Jenna.
“Oh,” I say as I do catch up. “Your backpacking pal was your ex. Sorry, I just assumed it was a mate of yours, like another bloke.”
His chin falls lower, practically resting on his chest, but his eyes hold mine, serious and steady.
“Oh,” I say again.