Chapter 18 – “Stay （Faraway, So Close!）” — U2
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HENRY
I like eating here. I’m on a first-name basis with the staff, and they take great care of me.
They put ice in my water, even though that’s a thoroughly American preference, and know how I like my steak.
The bartender on tonight didn’t even wait for me to order before putting a ramekin of mayonnaise, salt, and pepper in front of me for my fries.
She knows I’m a french fry guy, like I know she’s up for conversation when they aren’t too busy.
Kait and I have planned a chat later. It’s only three for her, so I have some time to kill.
I’m trying to stay on Chicago time, so I’ll be up for a while.
But it’s eight here, and already dark since it’s April, so Scotch isn’t unreasonable, nor are some tempura prawns while I await my steak.
I might even have some sticky toffee pudding delivered later.
“I’d ask if you come here often, but the staff seem to know your name,” says the woman stepping close, as British and posh as Julian.
She’s sleek in that way women who live in big cities and make lots of money often are, her hair smooth and her manner not quite bold, more self-assured and forthright. Accustomed to getting what she wants is the ideal way to say it, both at work and in rooftop bars in foreign cities.
She’s about my age, gorgeous, and… available.
“You would be correct,” I say, not sure of an appropriate response. “I’m here at least once a month, often more.”
“I’m Helena,” she says, and we shake hands, her grip firm as I expect from a power player.
She radiates executive energy. And giving zero fucks about what other people think about her energy.
Except for maybe me. For tonight, maybe two nights, depending on her travel schedule. “I’m here for a few days on business.”
“Here on business” is like a code for hot, brief, no-strings fling. Or maybe I read too much into it. Maybe it’s small talk.
She puts her hand on my elbow and drags it slowly up my arm to grip my bicep in a long, lingering caress.
It would be churlish to pull my arm away, but I break eye contact and inspect my Scotch.
I should want her touch, to touch and be touched after so long without, but I don’t. Not in the slightest.
“Henry,” I say, because my mom drilled manners into the herd of us from our first breaths. With so many of us, it was essential that we were well-behaved. “My name is Henry.”
“American,” she says with a smile. “How nice.”
It’s not a real smile. It puts me in mind of those insects that get devoured after they impregnate the female—or while they do the deed. Like she wants to consume everything I have to offer.
“Do you have plans for this evening, Henry?”
Do I have plans for this evening?
Now, that’s a loaded question, isn’t it?
Do I want to fuck a stylish, articulate, British woman who will likely ride me half to death before she flies off in a few days, never to be seen again?
No doubt she’d be a fun time. Break my two-year-plus fast, get my needs met for free, clear out my carburetor, so to speak.
Dip my nib in some expensive ink.
Or I could pay to talk to Kait.
Kait. Who is probably faking how much she likes talking to me.
Who is probably married with four kids and one on the way.
But somehow, paying Kait seems less salacious, less dirty than what’s being freely offered here.
And I’m not sure how to feel about that.
But I know that Kait gives as good as she gets and hesitates every time it’s her turn to take.
And gushes when I send her a present, even if it’s not expensive.
I tell myself she hesitates because she’s sweet. I don’t let myself wonder if she hesitates because she’s careful and protecting the cover story built for me. I’m not sure choosing to pay for intimacy instead of accepting it for free makes me principled. It might make me cowardly.
So I take the easy way out. For a guy who negotiates hundred-million-dollar and occasionally billion-dollar mergers, I am nonconfrontational.
Or maybe that’s the secret in and out of the boardroom.
I’m subtle, reserved, unlikely to say what I’m thinking unless I’m with Julian, or family, or on the phone with Kait.
“I was going to have dinner, then head to my room for a bedtime chat with my girlfriend.” As the words roll from my lips, I feel relief and a wee squeak of joy at the idea of Kait as something more to me than my phone sex operator.
“Of course,” she says, her lips tight at the subtle but present rejection. She’s not a woman used to hearing the word no. “A man who looks like you, I would be surprised if you weren’t spoken for.”
And I would be surprised if that was a boundary that mattered to her.
It matters to me, even though Kait and I aren’t really a couple.
If I went to Helena’s room, if we were intimate, I’d close my eyes and let Kait’s voice be the soundtrack.
And I’d feel guilty about cheating on Kait the entire time.
With Helena, I know her name. With Kait, I don’t even know her name.
I pay Kait. And yet I choose her over a flesh-and-blood woman who is—let’s be honest here—ready for a good time.
I leave half of my pile of excellent fries and take my sticky toffee pudding to go while the bartender gives me a look that feels like pity.
Then I torture myself thinking about my life choices until Kait and I connect.
“Babes,” I say, still keyed up. “I’m so happy to hear your voice. I’ve missed you.”
“I’m glad you’re still awake,” she responds. “I’ve been looking forward to talking to you.”
“Yes, well, here we are now,” I say, not in the least bit awkward. Sigh. Awkward beyond what I thought was my personal capability for awkwardness is more like it. “Talking. Just talking. Talking is good.”
“Spill.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter, Henry?” she says, her tone mild as she takes a sip of what I have to presume is tea.
“I was looking forward to a beyond hot tease and denial interlude with you, and I wanted to discuss some work stuff with your lawyer brain, and I have questions about visiting Chicago, but you’re sounding weird, so we’ll set all that to the side for now.
I mean, I was more than a little jazzed about tormenting you into an orgasm for the ages, but that can wait. And the work stuff too. Talk to me.”
So that’s what she was planning. Damn.
“I have no idea to what you are referring.” And that statement, all proper and stiff, is the nail in my coffin.
“I’ll just sit here quietly until you tell me what’s going on. Unless you’d prefer to hang up and get some sleep?”
She’s pure evil sometimes, but I can’t deny that being understood isn’t its own kind of aphrodisiac. One I never tasted before Kait. It’s heady. I could get drunk on her knowing me better than I know myself, the warmth of it coursing through my veins and leaving me tingling.
“Promise not to be mad?” I say. Dammit. It’s like I’m delusional and believe she’s my real girlfriend. As though wishes come true outside of fairy tales. As though she’s not being paid for this.
“Henry, I cannot imagine a world in which I was mad at you. I’m sure there will come a time, but it has yet to arrive.”
True. I hope that isn’t tonight. “I was having dinner at the bar, and there was a woman there who was… interested.”
I hold my breath, waiting for Kait’s reaction. And I wait, while she takes not one but two sips of tea and puts her teacup back on her saucer. The clatter, louder than I’ve ever heard from her end, makes me flinch.
“Go on,” she says after she makes me wait so long I wonder if my heart is going to stop. “Tell me more.” Her voice is measured. Bland even. As though she had asked about the quality of my most recent burp.
“It wasn’t so much what she said, but what she implied,” I whisper, afraid of what Kait might say, even though she’s the most open-minded person I’ve ever met. “She is, uh, here in Dublin for a few nights, like me. And I think she, uh, liked the look of me.”
“Is that Henry for ‘She wanted to try my dick on for size’?” The words are loaded, but the tone stays calm, so very perfectly and quietly calm.
“Erm, yes,” I say. “I think that could be inferred from our conversation. She was so straightforward about it, even I could tell she was, uhm, interested.” She latched onto my arm, and unease just spread through my entire body.
“Such a gentleman. And what did you say?” she asks, her voice the essence of tight control. Not mad. Curious, yes, angry, no. A swirl of relief dances in my stomach, but I’m still bracing for impact.
“I said my plans for the evening were to have dinner, then head to my room for a bedtime chat with my girlfriend.”
“Oh.”
That one little word is not nearly enough. She might as well have said nothing. And here I am, worried that I’ve upset my very-much-not-girlfriend, favorite phone sex operator by talking to another woman. For free. One might say I’m conflicted.
“I’m not delusional. I know you’re not my girlfriend, but we had plans for tonight,” I say as I squirm between the soft sheets, trying to think of a way out of this conversation. “I’m not crazy.”
“No, of course you’re not.”
She’s giving me nothing here. No heat, no anger, no encouragement, nothing. Just calm, cool, and collected while I get ready to have an aneurysm scrambling to explain myself, which I am not obligated to do in this situation. At all. Not one bit.
I try to slip into comfortable silence. I fail.
I fling the covers off and sit up on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I babble, words of apology pouring out of me like a broken dam, but I’m not sure for what I need to apologize.
“I’m not sure what to say other than it felt wrong.
I mean, I, it felt like I’d be cheating on you.
Not cheating, exactly, since I’m aware we are not a couple, but I didn’t want that with her when I could be talking to you.
You were the more appealing option. I mean, she was hot, but we had a date, errrr, a time arranged, you and I did… ”
That’s a compliment, right? I chose chatting with you—whether or not we have phone sex—over actual intercourse with someone else?
“I understand.”
Kait doesn’t give away her feelings, not a single hint at what she’s feeling.
I’m trying to spiral out, stumbling over myself, but she’s not having it.
She demands I strip and works me into a frenzy of lust and pleasure, teasing me for eons, keeping me dangling on the edge of orgasm until I babble yet again, wanting only her until she entices—no, she demands an orgasm from me.
But there’s a catch—I have to say her name as I finish, a trade my soul is eager to make.
The result is the single finest orgasm I’ve ever had with her—ever, really—the kind that fills me with white-hot light flashing through my mind and body, growing brighter until nothing matters but the knife-edge of the pain of constant denial slipping into relief while I’m wrapped up in her voice.
It’s so powerful I’m left a gasping and trembling mess, desperate to say her name in a manly growl but instead whimpering it as my body shudders with satisfaction and relief.
I’m devastated, my world decimated by the power of her voice.
It’s the kind of pleasure that rips and tears at the walls that hold the line between reality and my wishes.
She’s pleased, my not-girlfriend. Her voice is rich with it, talking to me as I return to earth. That’s all that really matters. If she’s happy, I’m happy.
But I can’t help but wonder if the mind-blowing orgasm is Kait’s way of telling me she’s pleased that I didn’t touch another woman.
“Benedict,” I say as I drift off, wanting to please her in some tiny way. “My first middle name is Benedict.”
“Sweet dreams, Henry,” she replies. Her happiness is contagious. I smile as I nestle into my pillow. “Sleep well, I’ll be thinking of you.”