Chapter 16
Dirk
I remove the portion of Mrs West’s baked chicken from the oven and serve it for myself with a potato salad with dill, an excellent accompaniment.
It’s been days since I heard from Lucy, not that I’m counting.
I select the music – Chopin – calm. What music would Lucy enjoy? Something brash and fun no doubt – ragtime, for dancing, or brassy big band, or even rock’n’roll.
A memory of a thumping good time arises unbidden, of a party back when Millie and I were students, back before everything – a fifties party, with the women all in full skirts that swirled out and showed their legs the faster we twirled them.
We men had slicked back our hair, and our skinny ties swung out as we danced in our short-sleeved shirts and stovepipe trousers.
Rock Around the Clock. We drank too much, deafened by music cranked up on a huge stereo, slaves to the beat.
The only thing to eat were cubes of cheese, and the next day was a nightmare.
I wonder what’s happened to all those people.
I know about Millie and Raymond of course.
Both gone now. Walt and some of the boys are still friends.
On my gleaming dining table, the chicken cools. Potato salad clags in my throat. Though I eat it every Saturday night, I’m suddenly tired of it, and for the first time, it’s far too quiet in here.
Saturday. Something. Saturday drinks. My neighbor’s party! Lucy invited me in person and followed up with a card. What time did she say? Six? It’s seven o’clock now, and I have no bunch of flowers for her, nothing.
The one night I had a decent invitation, I’ve blown it. I wouldn’t have minded meeting a few neighbors. The only ones I’ve met so far are Lucy and Davey, and now I’ve stood Lucy up. It’s beyond stupid. It’s rude.
Outside my apartment, dusk has settled around the building and light rain begins to drizzle.
I settle on a navy polo neck and jeans, the kind of thing Jamison might wear on a golfing weekend with business associates.
I’m grateful I don’t have to drive anywhere.
I pluck the white roses from the vase on the dining table Mrs West left for me earlier in the week.
I stand and check myself in the long mirror. Is it rude to arrive so late? I can invent an excuse but it’s best to get on with it and apologize. I rush down the stairs.
I stop outside Lucy’s door. It’s suspiciously quiet. I lift my hand but hesitate, knuckles poised.
When it swings open, a rush of welcome smells assails me – of cooking, the kind my cardiologist would forbid – of perfume and bubble bath and chocolate cherries in liquor – of mysterious alluring scents which beg to be explored.
Lucy stands, hand on the door, as if shocked to see me. She is beautifully attired, elegant as the hostess, but for an instant her expression is bleak, then unreadable, and a moment later, her smile is back and she is supremely in command, poised.
I hand over the roses. I regret not taking a moment to wrap the stems. They drip. But I wanted to get on with it. I’m late enough already.
Lucy’s delighted. She takes them from me, and dips her face towards the blooms and inhales deeply, giving me a glimpse of the skin of the back of her neck, so achingly elegant I shiver.
She whips her eyes to mine, smiles, then leads me into her kitchen where she grabs a vase, adds water, plunges the stems deep inside and sets them on a side table where an ornate mirror doubles their volume.
She places her fingers inside my elbow – an intimate gesture – and drags me forwards.
Lucy’s apartment is generously furnished, mostly with classic, old-fashioned pieces recovered in bright fabrics. There’s a chaise lounge, a Persian rug, and three of her lamps in the corner, quirky. Interesting.
“I’m so glad you’ll catch the last of the twilight, my second favorite time of day,” she says. “Sunset is the greatest show on earth, don’t you think?” Her eyes are magnetic. Lucy is a flame and I am the moth.
But there’s something very wrong. Am I the only one here? Jill was right. I am entrapped.
“Drink? I’ve just opened the champagne. Won’t you join me?”
“Just one.” I’ve come this far. “Am I really your only guest, Lucy, or am I so late that everyone else has left?”
“They’re very rude. Or very busy. Or very forgetful.
” She cocks her head and presses the stem of a fine glass into my hand, tapping her own to it so it rings in the silence.
She pulls me down beside her on the couch, her eyes to the large window.
Deep lavender clouds soften the view of jagged, dark buildings.
Lines of streetlights dot the distant hills, and more and more lit windows pierce the darkness, with, here and there, the blue-black flicker of television screens and a few early Christmas lights.
“Sorry I’m so late, Lucy. I’m not accustomed to receiving invitations from beautiful women.”
“Oh. Too charming by far, Dirk; Dr Suave. You’d be on everyone’s invitation list, I have no doubt.” Her eyes dance as she takes a long sip.
“You’re wrong,” I say as I match her sip and take another sip of my own, the cold bubbles sharp on my palate. “I keep to myself.”
“Something to eat?” She’s up and back beside me with one of the silver trays. There are blinis with smoked salmon and dill. My favorite. The tray is full. I take one, and even though I’ve eaten, it’s good. I reach for another.
“Tell me about Brighton Court,” she says as she refills my glass. The last of the sunset glints off the buildings, changes to a burnt orange. She stares out at the view, making it easier for me to talk. Millie was good at mixing. I don’t do small talk.
“What you see is what you get,” I say.
“Sorry?”
“Post war, modern, walk up, no elevator. Solid. Excellent position, close to shops and transport, not too far from all the buzz of downtown. Perfect for an old widower like me.”
“Mmmm.”
“It was all Jill, Jamison and Dee’s idea, and my friend Walt’s, but I like it.” Lucy’s such a good listener, I’m talking again without thinking. I never spoke much, busy listening deeply to my patients. Living alone now, I barely need my voice anymore. I clear my throat. Words don’t come to me.
“Great choice,” she says. “I love it here.” She taps her glass against mine again, and holds my eyes.
Her laughter is like rain on new leaves, like glitter on a Christmas tree, like something sweet, something I’ve missed, like fresh air or a summer storm after a long drought.
I want to hear her laugh again and again.
Her hand is on my arm. Without thinking, I flex my bicep and her eyes widen.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about Millie, and now, about Jamison’s unexpected invitation that I invest in his business. Lucy is a brilliant listener, all dark eyes and subtle nods.
“Winning is about defence as much as attack; about foreseeing the risks and avoiding them,” I say to myself as much as to her. It’s hard to stay on my guard. Lucy is the star here, and I am a comet, drawn closer and closer into her orbit.
“More champagne?” She’s already poured it, before I can object, and it twins perfectly with the blini. I eat more.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say. Millie would be proud of me.
“Oh. What you see is what you get.”
It’s such an invitation. Who could resist running their eyes over her, the poise, the curves, her grace, her hair and makeup – so subtle yet so alluring – her smile so ready to widen into a laugh, for me, about me, who knows? I don’t care.
The talk flows. I’ve never thought of myself as a conversationalist, but Lucy has me talking about all kinds of things, about travel and food and wine and sport. No, I don’t do much of any of them anymore, but she brings back treasured memories.
“But tell me about you,” I try again. This time it’s me who stands to top up our glasses.
“Do you know, we could walk together sometimes,” she says.
This is what Jill warned me about. Lucy is definitely reeling me in.
“Well, it could be fun,” she tries again. “You know you need me.”
“Absolutely not. You’ll tell me what I can and can’t eat and drink, and then redecorate. Run a mile...”
“That’s exactly the point, Dirk. You can’t run a mile. But you could. With me as your personal trainer, everything is possible.”
“Everything? That’s false advertising.”
“Trust me.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m fine, thank you. I already have a personal trainer.”
“Of course you do, a man like you.”
I don’t tell her it’s my daughter. Let her think what she wants about me. Let her think I’m a silver wolf. Or is it fox?
I stand and offer her the spread of cheeses and fruit and nuts. She takes some cashews and insists I sit on the couch again beside her. It’s an elaborate, ornate puffy blue thing with stripes and a carved wooden frame, painted gold.
Outside, it’s growing dark, the lights of the city blinking on. Inside, the room is elegant in pale pinks and pale greens. The three small, rose-red lamps in the corner cast a warm glow.
“Beautiful room,” I say.
“I salvaged this sofa from my shabby chic business. I had to give up the rest of my projects. Except the lamps, of course. So glad you like them.”
I nod.
“I haven’t given Jill or Mrs B their lamps yet. I’d hoped they’d come to my party.”
The sofa is slightly outrageous, gilded and Georgian, ornate rather than functional.
“I love being creative, reworking old lamp frames and bases and giving them an extra life; and it’s a nice little earner.
You can follow Lucy’s Lamps on Instagram, Dirk.
” She whips out her phone and flicks through to show me photo after photo of whimsical side lamps of all shapes and colors, some with tassels, some with fringes, others with bobbles.
“Very creative,” I say. “I avoid social media. I was a country doctor.”
“Hmmm,” she says. “I can see why you’d hide. But you’re not practicing now. You could learn something new, Doc.”