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Great Writing - Home > Extended > Three accounts of events - part 12(b)
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Extended Work
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| Three accounts of events - part 12(b) | |
| By teddy | ||||||||
| 15 April 2007 | ||||||||
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I've been struggling with this. I hope it's not too boring. As usual, comments much appreciated. I meander slowly around the car park in search for Paul’s car. I spot it in no time, big silvery Gulliver in Lilliputian land. There is an empty space next to it so I reverse my car into it. My parking skills are slack and when I finish, there’s only an anorexic line left between my car and the one nearby. I get out and walk to the front. Paul is already there, admiring my spatial perception. ‘Hey, nice parking,’ he laughs. I look at him, then at the car, then back at him. I smile: ‘Driving has never been my strong point.’ ‘Keys, please,’ he demands. He takes the car keys off me and slides into the driver seat. Two minutes later the car is symmetrically steadied inside the two lines edging the parking space. ‘Blimey, Adi, don’t you feel claustrophobic in there?’ Paul laughs as he gets out. I put on an offended face. ‘No, not at all. There’s nothing wrong with my car. Leave it alone.’ I’m very touchy about it. It’s a little Corsa George bought me a few months ago. It drives nicely and I’m really happy with it, no need to be laughed at. So what if it’s small? It serves its purpose, takes me and Vicky wherever we need to go; we surely don’t need a monster like his for that. The parking business finished, we finally indulge in a hug and a kiss. ‘What did you tell him, where are you supposed to be?’ Paul asks holding me close to him. ‘Shopping.’ I rest my head between his chin and his shoulder. One of his hands, widely open, is immersed in my hair. ‘Do you want to go shopping?’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’ ‘No, not in particular. But you decide.’ He kisses my hair and as I’m standing there, sunk in his arms, a cocktail of feelings – excitement, warmth and lust, topped up with guiltiness – stirs a slight tremor in my chest. ‘Ok. No shopping then,’ I mumble. We get into his car and drive off. ‘Are you hungry?’ Paul asks. ‘A little. Why? ‘Let’s go and get some lunch.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Does it really matter?’ No, I suppose it doesn’t I agree. The car smoothes along silenced roads, it’s Sunday and there aren’t many people and cars about. We pass an Italian coffee shop with a few tables and chairs lounging outside the front. The guy sprawled in one of the chairs – he’s wearing a white apron, one of the waiters I assume – throws me a friendly smile as I glimpse at him. The rainy misery of yesterday has given way to a clear sky Sunday, abundant in glittering sunshine. I look at Paul, well refined profile against the animated background caught through the car window. He turns to me and smiles; manipulative, swaying smile that drapes around you like soft music, perverting your senses. I wonder how many women have fallen victim to it. Am I one of them? As if he’s guessed my thought, in a distracting attempt he takes my hand and raised it to his lips, gently kissing the delicate skin of the inner wrist. ‘You have very small hands,’ he remarks while keeping my hand into his. He only lets it go when he has to change gears. I shift my hands and stare at them: they are indeed small, but not disproportionately small. Just small. They suit the rest of my body. I try to imagine myself with big hands, like two shovels or something. The picture shaped in my head is ludicrously hideous and I’m tittering. ‘What’s so funny?’ Paul raises an eyebrow. I tell him. ‘Hmmm, that would be handy,’ he mocks a pensive look. A few seconds later we are both laughing at the absurdity of his statement: handy hands, it sounds something like wet water. I start fumbling through his CD collection. ‘You want some music on?’ he asks. Maybe, I don’t know. See what he’s got; Coldplay, Radiohead, Sting, Philip Glass, Pink Floyd, even a Jean Michel Jarre, Madonna, …Madonna? Nah, this must be a joke, his taste in music might be quite versatile, but I’m sure she’s not on his favourites list. The question pops out spontaneously. ‘Are you still seeing Joanne?’ He glances at the object in my hand. ‘Depends what you mean by seeing her. Joanne is a good friend, so yes, we do occasionally see each other.’ I nervously shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. I know I shouldn’t have started, but it’s too late to stop now. ‘But when you brought her around to Vicky’s birthday party, I had the impression…’ ‘Well, you got it wrong.’ His voice is stripped off any cadence, his eyes are following the road unrolling in front of the car, and I can’t tell if he’s lying. But I have to suppress my doubts, it would be unwise to push the matter any further. I sigh resigned. ‘Ok.’ The scenery is changing, tall commercial buildings start looming ahead, we’re entering the City. The car purrs like a spoilt cat – Paul is an elegant driver – when it strolls, ten minutes later, along a familiar building into a miniature of a car park. The brain cells uploaded with reminiscences of past times are getting all febrile: this is where it had all started. There is the niche – I’ve never seen it in daylight before, it’s just an ordinary gap in the pub’s wall, most probably where they stack all the empty boxes and pallets - and two people, almost strangers at the time, engaged in a passionate act of love. ‘Come on,’ Paul takes my hand when I get out of the car. ‘I’m starving.’ We leave the car park and enter the pub through one of the side entrances. The buildings towering the area and the dusty narrow windows keep the brightness of the day outside, and the place is scarcely bathed in a diffused light stemming from the wall-mounted lamps scattered along the walls. Behind the bar a woman is busy arranging a small bouquet of red roses in a vase. She lifts her face when she hears the noise made by the opening door and smiles - a large friendly smile, I’m sure I’ve seen it before – when she sees us. ‘Paul, I didn’t expect to see you here today. Hello,’ she turns to me. ‘Hello, Grace,’ Paul returns the smile – Grace? I remember now, she is the landlady – ‘Oh well, I heard your Sunday roasts are delicious and I decided I must give it a go.’ She laughs. ‘Thanks. You won’t be disappointed, trust me Table for two?’ ‘Yes please.’ She goes to the trouble of taking us to our table herself; Paul is a treasured customer, I’m sure the contribution to her profits made by his regular business lunches, nights out with his clients or even just with colleagues and friends is not modest. ‘The waitress will be with you in a second,’ she says before leaving us cosily seated at a table in a corner. The place is not busy, it is Sunday and still early; I look around wondering if there are any other couples amongst the few sitting around using the place as a hideout for illicit affairs, away from their legitimate partners. A young pretty woman, smartly dressed, approaches the table: ‘Hello, Mr Harold, Miss.’ Gosh, Paul is indeed very popular in here. ‘Can I get you any drinks?’ she asks as she hands us the menus. Paul orders a bottle of wine, Pinot Grigio, my favourite. ‘Adi?’ he turns to me. ‘Anything else?’ ‘A glass of water please.’ I look at the girl. ‘Let me know when you’re ready to order the food,’ she says when she comes back with the drinks. ‘Paul, I can’t drink,’ I say when he starts pouring the wine in the two glasses brought over. ‘Of course you can. George’s not here to stop you,’ he gives me a mocking smile. ‘But I’m driving.’ He laughs. ‘Come on, Adi, you can barely call that driving. Your car is only two minutes away from your place. No one will stop you. And by the time I let you go home, there will be no traces of alcohol left in your blood, trust me.’ I hope he’s joking, I can’t stay too long. ‘You’re corrupting me,’ I smile as I take a sip of the aromatic strong drink. We order the food; we decide to jump the starters. Paul sticks to his word and chooses roast beef with all the trimmings, and I follow him. The food is indeed very tasty, it is definitely worth the little fortune Paul will pay at the end of the meal. We talk about Vicky. He asks how she is and I tell him about the colourful stunt she had staged this morning. ‘Did George get upset?’ he asks. ‘No, he never does. He lets her get away with pretty much everything.’ Paul’s eyes are concentrating on the plate in front of him and I can see his forehead creasing. ‘Hmmm.’ ‘Paul.’ I stretch my arm across the table and lay my hand on top of his. ‘George has done nothing wrong. He’s been always very good to us. Please, just try to give him some credit.’ He takes my hand and kisses it. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at me and he forces a smile. ‘Let’s not spoil the day, let’s talk about something else.’ ‘Dessert?’ he asks when we finish the main meal. ‘Do you think I should? I don’t want to get fat.’ ‘You’re very thin, Adi. You should look after yourself.’ He sounds really concerned. I order a slice of chocolate tort with fresh cream. He goes for the coffee. ‘How is it?’ he asks watching me rapidly gulping down the pudding. My fondness of chocolate is well known amongst my family and friends. ‘Horrible,’ I crinkle my nose. ‘Is it really?’ he looks at me doubtfully. ‘Try it for yourself.’ I sink the spoon into the chocolaty mousse and take a chunk out of it. The spoon reaches out for his mouth. ‘It’s nothing wrong with it, it’s actually quite nice, you little liar,’ he laughs. ‘I know. You shouldn’t believe everything I say.’ The lack of practice in the alcoholic department shows off and the one and a half glasses of wine I’ve had have sent me into a quite playful mood. I dip my finger into the remains of the cream sprawled on my plate. He grabs my wrist before the creamy tip of my finger manages to touch his face. He shifts over and squeezes beside me on the two seater bench I’m sitting on. His hand slips underneath my top and glides up on my back. He leans over and whispers something in my ear. ‘That’s rude!’ I exclaim blushing when he finishes. ‘You had never complaint before,’ he smiles. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he says after he pays the bill ten minutes later. The generous tip left behind will put a big smile on the waitress’ face, no doubt about that. ‘Where?’ ‘You’ll see.’ ‘Paul, perhaps I should go home.’ ‘Not yet. It’s still early, it’s not even half past two and the shops shut at five.’ He puts an arm around my shoulders as we start walking along the deserted streets – the City looks like an uninhabited island, its network is usually shut down for the weekend, and the very few passers by have a very touristy look about them – and I stretch my arm across his back, resting my hand into his back pocket. We look like a very much in love couple; we are in love, well I am anyway, but I’m not too sure about the couple bit. For a moment I feel as if I’m again the twenty-three years old girl with no other worries than how to enjoy the most the attention her charmingly handsome boyfriend pampers her with. I squeeze tighter under Paul’s arm. He stops and turns me around. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me; it’s a long warm-hearted, and somehow desperate, kiss. I wonder if he feels the same. ‘I wouldn’t mind some of that,’ a husky voice interrupts us. We stop and look around; a scruffy looking guy slumped against a wall is smiling at us. ‘No chance, mate,’ Paul laughs. ‘She’s taken.’ He dips his hand into his pocket and hands him a twenty pound note. ‘Here, treat yourself with something nice instead.’ The guy’s face lightens up as if he’s just won the lottery. ‘Cheers, mate. Don’t let her out of your sight, she’s beautiful.’ ‘I won’t,’ Paul smiles. We make a move and it’s not long before we stop in front of a very well-known to me building; the Harold’s’ offices are hosted somewhere on the sixth and seventh floor. Paul gets a card out of his pocket and slides it along the card reader. We hear a click and Paul opens the door. He holds it open and let me walk in first. From behind the reception desk a smartly dressed black guy is looking at us curious; he’s definitely not expecting any visitors today. ‘Hello, Mr Harold,’ he smiles politely when he recognises Paul. ‘Hi, Sam.’ We’re approaching the desk. ‘I have to pick up some stuff from my office,’ Paul explains our presence there as he signs us in. ‘Ok, no worries, Mr Harold,’ the guy keeps the courteous smile on. We’re both quiet on the way up in the lift. Paul’s holding me close to him and his hands are playing with my hair. We get out on the seventh floor and move along the corridors; the silence around is so deep it is almost scary. Inside his office – nothing’s changed in here, the same huge mahogany desk overwhelming the room, the big leather chair presiding beside - Paul walks to the windows and shuts the blinds. I’m standing next to his desk. ‘Paul,’ I whisper when he stops in front of me and lifts me up on the desk. ‘Ssshhh…sweetheart!’ His voice is soft and persuading. ‘Do you know how much I want you?’ he says as he’s taking my top off. I can’t answer that, his lips and his hands on my skin throw my mind beyond rational thought, the rest of the world blurs away, and I moan uncontrollably. When he sinks and we merge, bound by love and desire, into a unique entity, I know there is no one else out there that could ever make me feel the way he does. * It’s nearly five o’clock when Paul’s car pulls into Waitrose car park. My Corsa’s exposing its loneliness from amongst the empty spaces. I panic. God, I hope George hasn’t, somehow, come this way, the car is so easy to spot from the main road. ‘Hey, hey, where are you going?’ Paul grabs my arm as I’m trying to rush out of his car after I’ve quickly kissed him. ‘I need to go, Paul. It’s late.’ ‘Stop panicking,’ he says. ‘You’ll be all right. I’ve got something for you.’ He gets out and walks to the back of the car. He opens the boot and takes out a brand new baby car seat. ‘This will cover your shopping story,’ he smiles as he transfers the seat in the boot of my car. I look at it, much more expensive than the one I’ve been planning to get; George will never believe that I’ve bought it. I tell Paul. ‘Just tell him that I gave you the money. He will believe that.’ There’s a long cuddle and a warm kiss before we manage to part. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he says before letting me go.
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