Second Chance Romance

Chapter 8

EIGHT

‘How much narrower does this path get, and where are we supposed to be going? Last I checked, I wasn’t born a mountain goat.’ I can’t believe I’m doing this on only about four hours of sleep.

He strides out ahead. Our feet crunch a syncopated rhythm. Birds chirp brightly in trees. We’ve been walking for over an hour through what feels like a hairline crack in mountains that are both parched and barren, and oddly beautiful. Small inclines lead to larger ones, a gentle undulation through sunny spells and shade.

‘No idea,’ he says. ‘Never been here before.’

‘Huh?’ I watch out for those small and wobbly rocks you can easily twist your ankle on. ‘What do you mean you’ve never been here before?’

He stops, turns, plucks his sunglasses off, swipes me up and down with his gaze. ‘Hiking’s not my thing. I’m a beach guy.’

‘So why are we here, then?’

A small smirk. ‘Thought you might like to see something instead of just beaches.’

He relocates his glasses to the top of his head, pulls out his phone. He’s wearing a slim-fitting, sweat-wicking white zip-up shell, with green and black cargo shorts, and big black trainers that look sturdier than my pair of hot-pink Sketchers. He’s not unfit, I am loath to admit.

‘According to the map we’re supposed to follow the stream the whole way. We’re looking for the Bridge to Nowhere.’

It’s only 7.45 a.m. but the cloud cover has quickly broken, and I can already tell it’s going to heat up. ‘If it’s going nowhere maybe we don’t need to bother?’

‘Not as adventurous as your daughter, then?’ He strides off again. ‘By the way, Aiden never stops talking about her. He’s obsessed.’

I gaze ahead to where the shade gives way to a ridge of sun, a dramatic division of light and dark that makes me reach for my phone and take a picture. ‘Well, that’s his terrible misfortune, poor guy.’

‘Why? Is she going to break his heart?’

‘No. But he’s a guy, so he’ll break hers one day, if they go through with this crazy idea of hooking up for life. It’s pretty much guaranteed.’

‘That’s a pretty sexist attitude.’

‘I’m a pretty sexist person.’

‘Then we better ensure they don’t go ahead with this crazy idea.’

We come to a large crop of rocks, and he extends a hand. I take it, and he hoists me up, then just as quickly releases me.

‘So, what were you like at Harriet’s age, then? Other than a sexist person. Describe…’

I’m taken aback by the question and turn ridiculously self-conscious. ‘My memory doesn’t go back that far. Probably just like I am now, only with better skin.’

‘Harriet’s like your husband, then, is she? Is he the tactful one with the brains?’

‘He’s tactful but he doesn’t have a lot of brains.’

Frank picks his way across a stream via a set of stepping stones, and I tightrope-walk the trunk of a fallen tree. We land, virtually together, at the other side.

‘What about Aiden?’ I ask. ‘I’m guessing he’s very much like your wife, given he’s nothing like you.’

‘There’s always the possibility he’s like neither of us.’

‘You’re divorced,’ I say.

We’ve reached a flat stretch and I stare at the 365-degree view of dense shrubbery. Only three or four lizards seem to know where they’re going. He stops again, takes a breath. ‘Rachel died five years ago of a rare autoimmune disease. She was only forty-one. But yes, we were divorced a long time ago.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. That’s awful.’

‘You were telling me what you were like at nineteen.’

‘Was I? I don’t think I was.’

‘Let’s pretend. Or it’s going to be a very boring walk.’

‘But we came here to craft a plan to split our kids up.’

‘I was just trying to be civilised and get to know you a little. You know, given that we’re going to be partners in this mission.’

I flex at his choice of words. ‘Okay then…’ I search for the most interesting layer of my onion to peel. ‘Well, I liked to travel. I was really only happy when I was off somewhere. I think I wrote the book on the grass being greener.’ I realise that sounds silly given that he really does write books. ‘I never went anywhere too far afield though. I mean nowhere I was going to have a mind-altering experience or get kidnapped or…’ His mocking laugh cuts me off. ‘What I meant was…’ What am I even saying? ‘Actually, I don’t think I was all that adventurous at nineteen.’

‘And that’s a regret?’

‘Just an observation.’

‘What else was uninteresting about you when you were nineteen?’

I rub my brow. ‘Once I answer this, can we get on with talking about how we can’t let our children go through with this hare-brained idea of spending their lives together?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Well… not sure there was much more, really. I wasn’t quite as academic, or as driven as Harriet. I got a degree in Occupational Therapy from a respectable university. I thought it would be a steady career and I’d get a chance to help people and do something rewarding. But I never actually bolted up in bed in the middle of the night saying, Ooh-eeeh! I’m going to be an OT! It just sort of happened, like a lot of things in life do.’

‘But you liked it?’

I note he uses the past tense. So he had been listening when I told Aiden that I was taking a sabbatical from my job.

‘I did. But it may be time to see what else is out there. Strike out on my own. I’ve seen a niche in the market.’ He doesn’t respond to this. ‘I should have done it years ago. But I tend to get carried along with things rather than make big changes in my life.’ I am panting now. He isn’t panting. But that’s probably because he hasn’t had his mouth open in ten minutes. ‘I think I’m done now. I think that’s it.’

‘It’s probably enough,’ he says. ‘But I believe you’re selling yourself short. I believe you are very focused, and you do have passion for something. You want to be self-employed.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘I think you probably do. We usually know more about ourselves than we care to admit.’

‘Thanks for the psychoanalysis. You’ve come a long way from the mute millionaire in the kitchen.’

‘Mute millionaire?’ He sounds aghast. ‘I wasn’t mute. I was… uncomfortable and contemplative.’

‘That’s putting a really positive spin on it.’

‘And I’m not a millionaire. Not by today’s definition. I bought that house sixteen years ago for way below market value. It was an estate sale and the young kid who inherited it from his father’s distant childless cousin had no interest in the property and just wanted to get his hands on some cash so he could blow it all on cocaine. I jokingly lowballed him, no doubt unintentionally contributing to his early demise, and like a fool he went for it.’

‘That’s a fine hard-luck story. Kudos for ripping off a dead person, taking advantage of his relative, then helping him die in the process.’

He laughs for the first time, a proper, almost infectious laugh. Oddly, it makes my eyes spend time on his face. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Back to the reason we’ve come here. Do you believe two intelligent kids can be convinced they’re in love when they’ve known one another a month?’

‘Six weeks, and I don’t know. But maybe you should. You wrote the book on it.’

‘But that was fiction. As you know. Because you had such high praise for it.’

We arrive at a viewpoint and stare out across the silvery ocean dancing in the light of the sun. ‘You were rude,’ I say.

‘I get that a lot.’

‘You sound proud of this fact.’

‘Just because it’s a theory doesn’t make it a fact.’

He dips into his backpack and takes out two beers in cooler sleeves. He flips the top off one and passes it to me.

Some might say it’s way too early in the day for alcohol, but I am not one of them. ‘You know how to keep a person fed and watered. I will give you that.’ I take a sip, welcoming the hoppy coldness. He watches me like he’s making something of me that might not be entirely – brutally – unkind. ‘Unlike me, Harriet isn’t easily put off her goals. I’ve never yet seen her fail to get what she wants.’

‘I don’t really know whether Aiden is or isn’t easily put off.’

‘So, a shit father as well as a preternaturally lovable human being.’

He laughs again.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I think I spoke that thought out loud.’

After sending me a mildly scathing look, he perches on a rock, tilts his head back, drinks. I watch his stubbly Adam’s apple slide up and down as he swallows, a domino effect of muscle rippling through his neck.

‘You’re not entirely wrong about my being a shit father,’ he says, wiping his mouth with an arm. ‘I was self-absorbed for a long time. Aiden paid the price of that. All those years when I should have been making memories with my kid and concentrating on the now and recognising it for what it was – something eternally in motion, time we were never going to get back – I was looking behind me, and not liking the view.’

I sit on a rock beside him. ‘The annoying thing about successful high achievers is that they always spend a lot of time in their own head. So, between them earning millions, and spending the rest of their time in their own head, they seem to screw it up when it comes to relationships.’

He seems to contemplate this. Contemplate me. ‘Do you know many of these people?’

‘Nope. Only you.’

‘Well, I definitely don’t match any of that description. Except the fuck it all up part.’

‘But Aiden seems close to you.’ I study his big, tanned hands, the white crests of his fingernails. ‘So I’m assuming you were actually present in his life.’

He sends me an honest look; the first I’ve seen him give. ‘Conversation for another time,’ he says.

We admire the view for a while. Ocean for miles. Pacific Palisades and Santa Monica in one direction, Malibu, the other, with its multi-million-dollar homes precariously etched into the hills. Then he says, ‘What I meant by my earlier comment is that Aiden is a pretty driven guy. He wants a career in the movie biz and he wants to get there without me trying to open doors for him. But I’ve no idea how he rolls when it comes to his personal life because it’s not something we talk about. I know he dates. Maybe not as much as most guys his age, or as much as he should. But he’s never asked me to meet a girl before. I will say, he’s never talked about a girl like this, or lit up the way he does when he’s talking about her.’

For a moment, until I remember this is terrible news, I find myself savouring the way he just put that; the idea of a boy feeling that way about my daughter. Kudos to Aiden for recognising all her amazing qualities. ‘Somehow, I’d have thought having a dad who wrote the greatest love story of all time would make it an easy conversation to have,’ I say.

‘Writers are notoriously horrible communicators. We’re more comfortable with silences than conversation. But what I mean is, I love my son and I don’t want to undermine his feelings. But I believe he’s got a romantic disposition and that’s probably going to be his downfall.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘It wasn’t your downfall.’ He clearly made a lot of money out of his romantic disposition.

But he just says, ‘Aiden’s a pretty cautious and guarded person. He doesn’t let everybody in. But he’s vulnerable too, and he’s suffered a lot of loss in his life at a young age – me as a fully present father, then his mother.’ He sighs like this is awkward for him. ‘I suppose I’m trying to say that he’s met a girl he’s impressed with. Her dreams and ambitions might align with his, and he can actually have a proper conversation with her.’ He throws up his hands. ‘Hey, she’s beautiful. And in his emotionally vulnerable state he’s probably thinking he’s in love. And he might well be. It’s not for me to discredit that.’ He rubs a hand across his brow. ‘The Bible – though, believe me, I’m the last guy to go around quoting the Bible – but there’s this passage in it. It says, Test everything. Hold tight to that which is good .’ He turns his head in my direction. ‘It’s possible Aiden’s holding tight to something that feels honest and true to him, but at his age, and after six weeks, the one thing he hasn’t done is tested everything.’

He stands, takes my bottle from me, finishes off the dregs, like he’s used to putting his mouth where mine’s just been.

‘So that’s why I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure he thinks hard before he acts. He needs to be entirely sure of people before he gives the best of himself to them.’

People.

We start walking again. I’m not fond of how he has just referred to Harriet as ‘people’. Or how he implied his son might not be able to trust her.

‘Plus, he’s a twenty-one-year-old kid who needs to have some fun. Not saddle himself with some… He needs to see what’s out there before he commits to someone.’

Saddle ? And – some what?

If there were a saddle here, I’d like to hit him over the head with it.

‘He’s twenty- two , I think you’ll find.’ There is no mistaking my snarky tone. ‘And maybe he is having fun. Or maybe he knows that all the fun in the world can’t come close to what he gets from Harriet.’

‘They play tennis and talk about politics and their future careers. Does that sound like a great time to you?’

Ugh! I can’t believe someone who sounded so deep in that damned TV interview can be so superficial! Is he Charlie Sheen in Two and a Half Men ? The hedonistic, single writer lolling around his big beach house with its revolving door of Playboy bimbos. Taking nothing seriously. Owning nothing but the stuff that money buys.

‘Besides,’ he says. He picks up a small rock and pitches it at some coastal sage scrub. ‘Aiden doesn’t want anything from Harriet.’

The way he emphasises Aiden makes me stop in my tracks, and the blood runs cold in my veins. ‘What does that mean, if I might ask?’

He peels off his glasses again and looks me straight in the eye. ‘Status to live and work in the US. It’s obvious that’s what this is all about.’

I go to speak but think I might have misheard. ‘Wait… You think Harriet might want to marry Aiden for a green card?’ This is so preposterous I cannot believe it.

‘Everybody wants to live in America. I can’t see Harriet being an exception to that.’

‘You can’t see Harriet…?’ My voice has climbed and taken on a note of hysteria. ‘But you don’t even know her! How can you make a judgement about someone you know nothing about? You’ve met her once.’ The way he’s looking at me, with a certain listless composure, I can tell I’m almost wasting my breath; not that this is going to silence me. ‘She is absolutely not doing it for those reasons.’ I try to cool my jets a little, say it more authoritatively. ‘In her entire life, Harriet has never expressed any desire to live in the US and even if she had, this isn’t how she’d go about it. My daughter is not a user.’ My heart is hammering. How dare he?

‘So why do an exchange here, then? She could have gone anywhere in the world.’

‘Er… Not sure I really owe you an explanation for why my daughter chose to come to a major international city like LA, to one of the most prestigious universities in the world.’ Then I can’t help but add, ‘It’s no wonder you don’t write novels any more if your world view is so outdated you’d think she’d do all that just to find a man to sink her hook into!’

By his silence I might have hit a nerve. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘so let’s just suspend disbelief and suppose she isn’t wanting to marry him to eventually get citizenship – we still both agree on one thing. They’re way too young, and we can’t stand by and watch while they fuck up their lives.’

‘No, we can’t,’ I say. ‘You are damned right there.’ I try to focus on the end goal and not let his comments get to me. ‘But we can’t exactly snatch them up like they’re babies and run them to safety. Or tie them to a chair. And a poorly structured intervention might even backfire. It might make them even more determined to be together. I know my daughter. And I also know she’d not be attracted to a weak-willed guy.’

‘Love that word intervention. That’s exactly what this is.’ He nods. ‘We’re staging an intervention. So we have to be clever about it. Cleverer than they are.’

‘How do we do that?’ I ask.

‘I haven’t the first clue. Have you?’

I think hard for a moment. We are brainstorming right now, so nothing’s off the table. Good Lord, Harriet can’t marry into this family and have this man as a father-in-law. ‘Maybe we just have to do it through careful, kind, compassionate conversation… planting little seeds of doubt in them that’ll grow into these giant poisonous poppies.’

I think I’m quite good at this brainstorming thing when I’m motivated.

‘You want to poison them?’

‘Not poison them per se. Just very subtly erode the faith they have in each other, so they’ll eventually come to see that they’re not suited, and that they’ve had a lucky escape.’

‘Poison their minds,’ he nods again. ‘Love it. Love the lucky escape part, too.’ He looks at me as though he’s suddenly discovered I’m a genius. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going for, as well. Aiden’s got to see Harriet as a big fucking lucky escape. The mother of all bullets dodged.’

Wait? The mother of all effing bullets? My heart is back to hammering again. Don’t let his nasty comments distract you .

‘So how do we accomplish this?’ I ask. Ugh! This man is awful.

‘Don’t know. I think that might be Phase Two.’

‘Phase Two?’

‘Of the How to Break Up Harriet and Aiden Plan. We’ve got the strategy. We just need to think of the tactics now.’

I mull this over. ‘There’s a risk associated with intervention,’ I say, before we throw ourselves too wholeheartedly into this mission. ‘Have you ever thought that if you don’t support him, he’s going to be very disappointed in you? Maybe for the rest of his life. Your relationship might never be the same again, in fact.’ Once he’s seen what a nasty piece of work you are.

‘I’ve thought of that,’ he says, unconvincingly – like he’s way too lazy to have thought of anything close. ‘But it’s still better than see him possibly hook up for the long term with her now, and then in a decade realise he’s the oldest thirty-two-year-old he knows.’

Wow. He really saves the best for last.

Harriet’s going to turn Aiden into the oldest thirty-two-year-old he knows.

I’m not sure I know what to say to that. I am frantically searching my head, but nothing comes.

We have walked in silence for a while. It really does feel like thirty degrees. My crotch is sweating bullets, and my shirt is clinging to my back.

Then he says, ‘I think we have to face a grim reality.’ He rubs the back of his hand across his brow.

‘Which is?’

‘I’ve no clue where we are.’

I’m still smarting from how fiercely he seems to distrust Harriet. Green cards. Bullets. And the oldest thirty-two-year-old he knows. ‘This is a joke, right? I mean, you’ve got a map on your phone.’

‘ Did have. When we had an internet connection.’

‘Are you serious? I need the loo.’

He points behind us. ‘It was when we left the backbone trail. Remember when I said that we have to head right and follow that creek? I think it should have been left.’

I waft my shirt, to try to let a little air up there. I am pooped too, from my short sleep. ‘That must have been two miles back.’

‘Or more. There’s a road that way.’ He indicates another direction. ‘And you can solve the peeing problem, by the way. I won’t look. Or put you on social media.’

‘I can worry about my own bladder, but thanks for your concern. And if you’re meaning that road…’ I can just about make out a hairline of concrete among the browns and greens.

‘The positive is it’s downhill.’

I gawk at him. ‘There’s got to be another solution.’

‘Die up here?’

‘I don’t know why this is amusing.’

‘It’s not. It’s tragic. We never got to the bridge that isn’t going anywhere.’

I’m about to say Why did you even bring me here? It’s not like we’ve accomplished a lot, when I see it. About five feet ahead of me. Or maybe first I hear it rattle. ‘Oh my God! It’s a snake!’ I turn to stone. Except for my bladder which pretty much goes the opposite of stone.

‘Don’t panic.’ He fixes his eyes on it. ‘Though I’m glad you told me it was a snake, as I would never have known.’

‘What do I do?’ I squeak.

‘Hmm… Let’s think. You might want to back up slowly and give it some space.’

‘Really? I thought it might want to go for a ride around my neck.’

‘Not sure if you know, apparently rattlesnakes go for the smartasses first. So, great to have you around, Moira!’

‘Do they really bite?’

‘I don’t know. If I had wi-fi I could google it. But as I don’t, we may find out the hard way.’

‘Seriously, what am I going to do?’ I think I just peed myself. A dribble: that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

‘Don’t back up too fast. Oh, and watch out for…’

I take one step and trip over a bloody rock. I land hard on my bottom. After a spell of shock, I flip over on all fours, and scramble away. A stone embeds itself in the meaty part of my palm.

‘Not your day, is it?’

After he’s caused all this fuss, the snake seems to think I’m not worth bothering about and disappears back where he came from. Frank strides over to me, reaches out a hand. I have zero intention of taking it, given this is all his fault, but the hand isn’t going away any time soon. Grudgingly, I let him tug me up. He holds on to me a little longer than is necessary, so I snatch my hand away from him. He passes me my bag, which he kindly picked up for me. I dust myself off, pick the stone out of my palm, and look down at my filthy kneecaps. ‘Where’s the goddamn road?’ I growl.

His eyes sweep my face. ‘It’s still this way,’ he says, with a flick of his head.

‘Okay. Can we just get there please? And maybe can we just focus on walking and not so much on the talking? I think it might be better that way.’

‘Whatever the lady wants.’

‘Did you really just say that?’ I roll my eyes. ‘Yeesh!’

Once we come to the road it’s like our problems are just beginning. It stretches off for what looks like many miles without so much as a sign of life.

‘Permission to speak.’ He holds up a hand.

‘Alas, not granted.’ I pick a direction based on a glimpse of what I think is the ocean in the distance.

‘’K then,’ he says. ‘I won’t say it. No need to wonder about the great suggestion I was going to make.’

We walk for about twenty minutes, or it could equally be two hours. My legs have turned wooden. The sun is almost demolishing my sunglasses and I try not to think about how hot I am, and how thirsty, and how knackered. Finally, we see a car coming. As it gets closer, it turns out to be a vintage, Tiffany-blue Bronco that looks like it’s being held together by pot and prayers.

‘Given I can’t ask you if you think this is a good idea, I’m just going to go for it.’ He steps out into the middle of the road, sticks up his thumb.

‘What?’ I gawk at him. He really is doing this. ‘We’re hitchhiking now?’

‘Unless you have a better idea.’

I wish I did. But I don’t. This vehicle looks like it should come with a government health warning, so I’m almost hoping the driver doesn’t take pity on us, but no; it shakes, rattles and rolls to a stop. Two stoned Sonny and Cher lookalikes peer at us like they’re not sure we’re real or an apparition. Then Sonny unleashes a welcoming smile. ‘Hop on board, bro,’ he says to Frank. I assume that means I can come too. We climb in through the back window, try to find a place to perch amidst a rubbish tip of empty food containers, pop bottles, odd shoes, hoodies, twisted thongs, underpants, towels, dog collars, and other detritus of living-out-of-your-car life. By the time we reach the parking lot, I am heady from pot fumes, and my insides are painfully crunched from trying not to impale myself on a surfboard fin.

‘Goodbye!’ I say to Frank, clambering down then raking in my bag for my car keys. ‘This has been fantastic. And here’s me thinking we couldn’t top our first meeting.’

‘I don’t know what you’re so upset about.’ He continues to stand there and watch me as though I’m TV entertainment. ‘We’ve got a plan to break up the romance of the century: we’re poisoning them, I do believe. You’ve seen a side of the Santa Monica mountains you didn’t know existed. You encountered wildlife. And then there was me as your own personal tour guide.’ He cracks a lascivious smile.

‘What can I say? It’s just been too much of a good thing.’ I pat my trouser pockets, front and back, feeling jittery from dehydration, the bumpy Bronco ride, and suppressed rage. Where the hell are my car keys?

‘You look like you’ve lost something,’ he says.

‘Haven’t you gone yet?’

‘Just want to make sure you’re okay.’

‘I will be. When you leave.’

‘Going then…’ He starts walking. Back to his sexy little black Porsche. With a click of a remote, it breathes to life.

One more search through my bag and pockets. They’ve got to be here somewhere. But then a horrible thought occurs. Did they roll out when I fell? That’s the only thing that could have happened. They are lying in dirt back up the mountain.

Oh my God. ‘Fraaaank!’ I holler.

He has opened the car door and slid inside. Now he has closed the car door. Is he deaf? I holler his name again – louder this time. But then I hear the engine start up, the Porsche’s trademark clatter and whir. He backs out of the parking space in an arc, rolls up right beside me, looks at me through his window for a long moment before lowering it.

‘Erm…’ I try to smile a bit. ‘Do you think you can give me a lift home please? It seems I’ve misplaced my car keys.’

He peers at me over the top of his sunglasses. There’s a mildly mischievous quality in those annoying green eyes that I try not to pay any mind to. His car has red seatbelts. I mean, whose car has red seat belts? Did he get them custom-made? Who would do that?

He says, ‘No, Ma’am.’

In my kerfuffle, I’m not sure I adequately expressed the true nature of my problem. So I tell him again: ‘I’ve lost my keys. I’m going to need a ride home.’

He flexes his mouth into a straight line, stops looking at me over the top of his glasses, takes them off. ‘If you say something nice – even something in the vicinity of nice, and you beg a little – I might consider it.’

Nice? After all the things he said about my daughter? I pretend to gaze at the sky like there’s a world up there that’s endlessly fascinating to me. But it is a long walk back to Santa Monica. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I really don’t think your books stink – though, to be fair, I’ve only read one of them, so it could be argued that the jury’s still out. And I’m sorry I called you an asshole. It’s not even a word I use. In England we’d be more likely to say arsehole but even then we have a lot better insults than that. So, what I’m trying to say is… I’d be very grateful if you’d drive me back to Santa Monica. Er… Please.’

He fixes his glasses back on his face. ‘No, Ma’am,’ he says again.

And then he drives off.

He freaking vanishes in a cloud of dust.