Chapter 17
Cora in Her Twenties
Anders is waiting for me. I can tell he hasn't been home to change.
Although most of his clothes look identical, his black jeans have a rumpled look and his T-shirt bears the same logo as the one this morning.
In a way, I'm glad of it as I'm still in my workwear.
I took advantage of having no Effie to schedule a chiropractic appointment.
I spend so long in front of a computer, my neck and spine always ache.
We look like two colleagues meeting for a drink after work and that’s good. No pressure. Except his eyes light up when he sees me, and his grin has everything to do with sex and mischief and nothing at all to do with company gossip.
The way he takes my hand when I'm close enough is a marker.
This doesn't happen when we are at work.
I must admit I like it. His hand is big and warm, and it swallows mine; his grip firm but gentle.
My fingers seem to nestle inside his perfectly.
And something weird is happening to me, as if every particle of my body is perking up and going: Oh, what's this?
I return his smile with one of my own, and suddenly there seems so much between us — so much on the table, far more than I had intended for this one first step.
My tongue creeps out to lick my bottom lip and my teeth scrape back over it.
It's a sign that I'm nervous. But I'm so close to Anders I can see his reaction in his eyes, and my body is screaming a new song: Sod the food, let's go and fuck.
Anders tugs me lightly forward, and before I know it, we've stepped over the threshold into the restaurant. The ma?tre d' is hovering. He checks Anders's reservation before guiding us to a table for two.
The restaurant is dark-panelled, dimly lit by glittering crystal chandeliers. The chairs are velvet covered; the tables laid with white linen. It exudes elegance and discretion. This is not the place for business dinners or group parties, but for private tête-à-têtes and anniversary celebrations.
The ambience is unhurried and old-fashioned, reminiscent of the days before cars and computers.
I take a breath and slow myself down, reminding myself we don't have to rush.
We have all night if I want it. Menus appear, and Anders and I suddenly find ourselves face-to-face outside of the work environment.
I wonder if we'll find anything to talk about.
All those first date icebreakers are useless.
There's so much I already know about him. Hell, I even know his shoe size.
We wave away the drinks menus as both of us are driving and concentrate on choosing food. After the waiter has taken our orders, I ask, “Do you have a first date getting-to-know-you process?”
“I'm not sure,” he says. “I haven’t had a first date in a while. Although I wouldn't call it a process, certain topics do come up.”
“Favourite colour, favourite movie, favourite band?” I suggest.
“Yellow, Ready Player One, Green Day.”
Nothing odd there except, “Yellow?” I look at him.
“What's wrong with yellow?”
I haven't been on a date in years — nearly a decade in fact. But I'm pretty sure yellow is not a common choice for men. My eyes drop to his chest. “So why do you always wear black?”
“Because it's hard to get jeans in yellow,” he says. A joke? Did he just make a joke?
“You realise you've just thrown down the gauntlet.” I raise one eyebrow. “From now on I'm going to look for any item of men's clothing that I can find in yellow. I will take great pleasure in presenting it to you and I will expect to see it worn.”
He shrugs. “And I will take great pleasure in receiving it. If you gift it, I'll wear it. Deal.” He pauses. “Your turn.”
We’re interrupted by the arrival of our food and I’m glad of the extra thinking time.
No-one has asked me about my interests in a long time.
When the waiter finally departs, I raise my eyes to his.
At work, I make a habit of avoiding his direct gaze but if we are doing this, I can’t avoid the connection.
Bracing myself, I say, “Blue. Pride and Prejudice. Adele.”
His eyes hold mine. It’s like the entirety of his attention is focused on me. I am the single most interesting thing in the world. The wittiest, the cleverest, the most fascinating. This is his magic.
Then he says, “Calm, optimistic, wounded.”
I’m taken aback by his forthrightness. And it makes me defensive. I break the connection. “Apparently, you know me too well. What on earth can we talk about now?” I ask.
“Oh, I don't know,” he says. “There's a host of things I want to find out about you.”
“Like what?”
If he says something hackneyed like ‘the face you make when you come’, I’m leaving. Boss or not. Those fantasies will just have to burn themselves out.
“Why did you call your daughter Effie?”
“I don’t know. I looked at her and she was an Effie. We’d been calling her Peanut but obviously that wasn’t going to fly any longer. And when Mike said he didn’t like the name, that sealed it.”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
And there’s a world of questions behind that sound.
“Well, he’d just told me he was leaving.
Effie was only seconds old, and he was off.
I was lying there, exhausted and emotional, and he dropped his bombshell.
I was speechless, completely floored. I’d genuinely thought we were trying to make a go of it as a family, but he was just biding his time.
He thought he’d been a saint for standing by me while I was pregnant.
Like the hard work started with conception and finished with the birth. ”
He winces. “That was kinda crass.”
“Which sums up Mike perfectly. Can we leave it there? I don’t want to waste time on him.” I pause. “Also, can I ask that we don't talk about Effie tonight?”
His eyes widen, but he says, “Okay.”
“It's just that I spend all my life being Effie's mother. That's what I am, twenty-four seven. I just want one little pocket, one evening, where I can pretend I'm just Cora. Cora, single, in her twenties, out to have a good time.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “And what does Cora-in-her-twenties do to have fun?”
I try to think back to my life before Mike, before Effie. “I like to dance. I like to sing at the top of my voice, but I can only do that when I'm in the car on my own, because I was born without any talent.”
“Talent can be taught. Perhaps you should join a choir.”
“A choir? How old do you think I am? Anyway, I don't think a choir would suit my inner wild child.”
“Have I ever met this inner wild child? Does she get out much?”
I consider whether the question is straightforward or innuendo. But there is nothing suggestive in his tone, so I answer in the same easy-going manner. “Oh, yes. I've danced all night. And jumped out of a plane, driven in a rally, skinny dipped at midnight in a crater lake.”
“Did you do all that before you became a mother?”
“I did all that before I met Mike.”
“That’s a lot.” He pauses. “So, back when you were growing up, what did you want to be? I’m guessing it wasn’t assistant to the most wonderful boss in the world.”
I let him have his bit of vanity. Acknowledging it with nothing more than a smile, I say, “A princess. Doesn't every child? I actually held onto that dream a lot longer than most. It took me a while to work out I'd been born into the wrong family.”
“You don't have any sisters or brothers, do you?” he asks.
“Sadly, no. I don't know why, but there's just me. I’d have liked siblings. But it wasn’t my choice, and it's not the sort of conversation I could ever have with my parents.”
“Why not?”
“Because maybe they tried and me asking would remind them of the pain. Maybe they only ever wanted one child and me asking would imply dissatisfaction with their choice. And it’s too late to change anything.”
I lean back as the waiter arrives to collect our empty plates and replace them with full ones. When he leaves, Anders leans forward again, his eyes glittering in the golden-hued light. “Effie said your parents are in Angola?”
“For the time being. My mum and dad have lived all over the world. Dad’s in the oil industry,” I say, making it sound way more glamourous than the health and safety compliance officer he is.
“Every couple of years it's a new country. When the accident rate in a facility gets to an unacceptable level – and believe me, they don’t set that bar low – he gets sent in. It normally takes two to three years to turn it around, and he’s moved on to the next place. ”
“That must have been hard growing up.”
“Well, sort of. But the company paid for me to go to boarding school in the UK, so it wasn't that bad. I had some stability. And it means I've seen far more of the world than most people. Of course, none of it was anywhere tourists would go.”
“Jesus. And there was I, thinking I was intrepid for leaving Wisconsin and going all the way to wild, uncivilised England.”
“Uncivilised, really? It can't be all that different from the States.”
“It is, and it isn't. Sometimes it's so familiar, and then somebody will say something, and you realise it's not the same at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something simple. Like, I was in a bar, and I asked for a seltzer and the bartender looked at me oddly and suggested I try a chemist, which later I found out meant a drugstore.”
I laugh. “He thought you meant Alka-Seltzer for heartburn. What’s a seltzer to you then?”
“A fruity, fizzy, alcoholic drink.”
“Never knew that.” I tip my head. “What else?”
“You don’t hunt.”
“I think that’s more of a city folk versus country folk thing. You might find it different outside of London. Are you a good shot?”
“I’m a great shot,” he says without a hint of modesty. But this is Anders, after all. He doesn’t make false boasts, but neither does he hide his light under a bushel.
Still, I’m enjoying this. “What other talents have you got?”
“I can build a pretty mean den. Catch and cook a trout on an open fire.”
“Oh. Now that's useful. So, come the zombie apocalypse, everybody stick close to Anders.” I wanted to say we. Me and Effie. We should stay close to you. But that sounded way too intimate.
He laughs. “You could do worse. You have my promise: in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I’ll save you and Effie first.”
I’m aware he’s joking but his words do something to me.
There’s an undercurrent to everything tonight.
It’s like Toy Story, working on two levels; there’s the superficial humour, but underneath there’s a deeper emotional message.
It makes me uncomfortable. It’s too much, too soon. Anders in a nutshell.
I shy away from it and take the shallow road. “Do you miss it?” I ask.
“Sometimes. It's a big change.”
“It must have been. Small-town Wisconsin to the greatest city in the world.”
“Well, that's very patriotic of you,” he says. “But I'm not sure we all agree.”
“You choose to live here too,” I point out. “You must agree a bit. If not London, where would you nominate? Paris? Tokyo?”
“Chicago. World-class architecture but it comes with great pizza and a big lake.”
“I’ll give you the pizza, but doesn’t it get really cold there?” I give a fake shiver.
“Only for sissies.”
“That would be me, then.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, leaning forward.
“I would keep you warm.” And suddenly we are back in Toy Story land again.
The thought of him keeping me warm is already heating my blood.
Now I no longer want dessert. All I can think about is getting out of here, shortly followed by getting out of my dress and getting into his bed. With him.
He can see the impact of his words. The air between us is charged.
He swallows and his eyes find mine; a question.
The slightest nod from me and he asks for the bill.
We don’t need more words. He pays. The waiter brings our coats.
He helps me into mine before his hands slide down my arms. One hand wraps around mine, he holds the door and we are outside.
I so badly want to kiss him. It’s a physical ache.
So, when he drags me two steps into the alcove of the neighbouring shop, I go with him willingly.
He half turns me, my back to the door. His hand drops mine, moving to cradle my head.
His fingertips slide through my hair, trailing tingles.
I tip my chin up. His blue eyes are gone, swallowed by desire.
His body is hard against mine; I can feel his heat everywhere.
His lips are open, breath coming in pants.
Yes! My mind screams. At last!
Buzz, buzz.
The vibration doesn’t stop. It’s brutal and insistent. I can’t ignore it, neither can he.
His hands drop. He steps back. Cold air floods in. “Go on.” His words betray his disappointment. No less than I feel.
I pull out my phone. Dana. She wouldn’t call if it wasn’t necessary. Suddenly Cora, single, in her twenties, is gone and I’m back to being a mother.
I answer my phone. “What’s wrong?”
I can hear sobbing in the background. Dana doesn’t bother with small talk. “Effie’s been throwing up for the last half hour. I’m so sorry, Cora, but she only wants her mummy.”
“I’ll be right there. Tell her I’m coming.”
I don't have to say anything to Anders; he's already heard my side of the conversation. The last vestiges of the heat of our encounter have evaporated. I wonder how he'll handle this. He says he wants a family; this is the reality. It’s a good test.
But he doesn't plead for extra time, nor does he make me feel bad about having to go.
All he says is, “I'll walk you to your car.” And he does, matching his pace to mine as I hurry along.
The maternal imperative is strong, forcing me to walk as fast as my office heels allow.
I regret not wearing my flats so I could hit a faster pace.
Stormfly comes into sight, lights flash a splash of orange as I near, and there's the plunk of her unlocking. I pull open the driver's door. Every shred of the moment we shared outside the restaurant is gone, and Anders seems to understand.
“Take care, Cora. Drive safe,” he says.
And then I'm behind the steering wheel, pulling the car out into the night-time traffic. I check the rear-view mirror once more. He's standing on the side of the road, watching me go.