Magic Sometimes Happens Part 13

'What kind of music?'

'Anything, as long as it's not really weird long silences or people dropping pebbles in a box and calling it a soul concerto, idiotic stuff like that. I like something with a melody.'

'I don't think I've come across the pebbles in the box concerto, so it can't have made its debut in the USA. What about American composers Aaron Copland, George and Ira Gershwin, Jerome Kern they do anything for you?'

'I don't know their stuff.'

'It's great. I love it. You should make its acquaintance.'

He stirred his foaming cappuccino, round and round and round, dissolving all the chocolate dust, or most of it. There was a little smudge of chocolate powder on his index finger and I couldn't take my eyes off it. I longed to lick it off.

'So shall we go listen to something with a melody tonight?' he added, picking up his cup and drinking, dotting foam along his upper lip. It made him look completely edible.

I will come and listen to anything provided I'm with you, I thought. People banging dustbin lids together, dropping stones down wells, you choose.

'Who's playing what?' I asked, all cool and unconcerned, or so I hoped.

'The Minnesota Orchestra. A Polish guy's their soloist tonight and he'll be playing the Emperor concerto. Do you know it? One of my graduate students told me this man is sensational and I would like to hear him.'

'So would I.'

'Okay, that's what we'll do. I checked the website earlier and there are tickets left. We'll be too late to catch the Mendelssohn this guy is playing first, but we can go in at half time.'

What was this Emperor concerto? I didn't like to say I'd never heard of it, that I preferred Bob Dylan, Amy Winehouse and Christina Perri.

Pat drank his coffee, ate his m.u.f.fin.

'Good to go?' he asked me, putting down his cup and winding his black scarf around his neck.

'Yes, good to go,' I trilled. I was so jealous of that scarf!

'Please could you pa.s.s my handbag?' I pointed to the chair beside him where I'd dumped my coat and bag. 'I need a paper hankie. I thought I had one up my sleeve, but it's not there and so I'll need to have a little rummage.' What an idiot, I thought. I must sound like my mother. What must he make of me?

I didn't listen to the Emperor concerto.

I was hardly conscious of the hall, the Minnesota Orchestra, the brilliant Polish guy. It was as if they were all under water and everything was muted, blurred everything, that is, except for him.

Patrick Riley was as sharp and clear as a bright summer morning. As we sat there listening or in my case not listening to the Minnesota Orchestra, all my senses were attuned to him.

I heard his soft and regular breathing. There was his right hand upon the armrest, a mere inch or so away from mine. He had attractive hands of course I had already noticed that square and capable, with blunt-cut nails, and perfect on a man.

Whenever I could or dared I glanced at him. I breathed him in, I almost tasted him. I lost myself in him.

He'd taken off his dark grey jacket and I saw he had a brand new s.h.i.+rt on light blue cotton with a pale grey stripe. Perhaps he'd bought it earlier that day? There were telltale creases on the sleeves, across the chest, and every time he breathed I saw his ribcage rise, rise, rise, then fall, fall, fall again.

I could smell something faintly cinnamon-scented was it him? It was delicious anyway, and I wanted, wanted to press my palm against his chest, to feel the warmth of him.

I wanted, wanted to take his hand and- This was truly awful. I forced myself to breathe more slowly, deeply. I told myself to think of school dinners, trying to find a taxi in the rush hour, hockey on wet winter mornings, putting out the bins. Anything but Patrick Riley sitting next to me, conscious of him breathing in and out and wanting, wanting him ...

Then it was all over and everybody started getting up. Pat was putting on his coat and, as he raised his arms, I became aware of the most potent and attractive of all scents to women, that of warm and clean and s.e.xy man.

'What did you think?' he asked me, handing me the scarf I had forgotten.

'Oh, I loved it,' I replied. 'Did you?'

'I thought it was exceptional.' He smiled and made my heart turn somersaults. 'I guess you must be hungry now?'

'A little, I suppose.'

'Do you want to go get a Chinese?'

'That would be great.' I wanted him to take my hand. But of course he wouldn't, I knew that, and it was just as well.

'You'll be going back to England soon,' he said, as they put our dishes of special egg-fried rice, of beef in black bean sauce, of chicken with pineapple and cashew nuts, of sticky ribs and all the other stuff he'd ordered without asking me, I have to say, which was either very caring, masterful or downright rude of him on the gla.s.s and aluminium table in the most upmarket Chinese restaurant I had ever come across. 'You'll be glad to see your folks again.'

'I suppose so.'

'You don't sound too sure.'

'It will be good to see my family.' I forced a smile. 'But when I get home, I shall be starting my own business, and I suppose I might be just a little bit afraid.'

'I'm sure you'll do just fine.' He forked up noodles, bean sprouts, prawns and rice. No chopsticks for Professor Riley, I observed. They were lying unbroken by his plate. I didn't blame him. I was total rubbish when it came to using chopsticks and I also used a fork. 'How do you like the food?' he asked.

'It's wonderful.'

'It's always good in here.' He scooped up chicken, pineapple, cashews. But he didn't eat instead, his fork stayed hovering above his plate. 'There must be some guy in Britain who is looking forward to seeing you again?' he added, looking straight at me.

'No.' I shrugged, remembering the best man at that wedding with the bridesmaid's scarlet knickers on his head. He'd been the last to make a pa.s.s at me. 'There's n.o.body at all. Actually, I don't have too much history with guys.'

'You mean you don't like men?'

Well, for goodness sake direct or what? 'I like men well enough,' I said. 'I've been on dates. But I've never been especially close to one particular man. I've never got engaged or anything. I'm sure my mother thinks I must be gay.'

'So are you?'

'No and before you ask me, I'm not bis.e.xual, either.'

I think I must have sounded quite offended because his ears went red. 'I'm sorry, Rosie. Of course it isn't any of my business.' He waved his fork over his laden plate of everything on offer. 'I'm glad you like my choice of food,' he added. 'When the guy came up to take our order, you didn't seem to notice he was there. When he spoke to you, you didn't answer. It seemed like you were in a kind of daydream. So I asked him to bring a bunch of stuff.'

'Oh, good heavens, I do apologise.' I wished the ground would open up and swallow me, digest me. I felt my face catch fire. 'I've always been a dreamer,' I said, or rather muttered. 'My teachers all despaired of me.' But although this was the truth, or at least a kind of truth, I could not remember actually zoning out before.

I forced myself to swallow a half-chewed piece of mushroom. It felt like I was choking on a slug. 'This is all fantastic,' I said brightly, Miss Congeniality herself. 'I've always loved Chinese.'

He didn't speak instead, looked at me intently, unspoken questions in his dark brown eyes. I met his gaze for maybe twenty seconds. Then I stared down at the table. There was his left hand holding his fork and on his third finger was his wedding ring, which I had never noticed until now.

Or not wanted to notice? Why had I met this man? Why had I rung him? Why was I here with him? I couldn't deal with the emotions I was feeling.

They asked too much of me.

PATRICK.

'Rosie, are you done?' I asked.

'I think so,' she replied, putting down her silverware and sighing. 'I'm sorry, Pat,' she added. 'Absolutely everything is totally delicious, but I'm tired.'

No, I told the waiter who was hovering beside us. No, I didn't want a doggie bag. Yeah, the food was excellent. There was no problem with the food or service, but we were running late for something and we had to dash. Yeah, we'd come back soon.

'I'll call a cab for you,' I said when we were on the sidewalk, thinking I can't stand all this much longer. But in another way I'd like to stand it all my life.

'Or maybe you could drive me? I'd appreciate it if you would.'

Did she know what she was doing to me?

No, she couldn't know. But her eyes were bright and she looked feverish and she couldn't concentrate when we were in the restaurant. I swear she didn't listen to that music. She hardly touched her food. She clearly wasn't well. So we walked the couple hundred yards back to the parking lot where I had left the trash-mobile.

'I need to have a blitz on this,' I said apologetically, sweeping candy wrappers and juice containers off the seats to add to the debris and garbage rotting on the floor.

'You should see my Fiesta. It's full of junk, much worse than this. I don't have your excuse because I haven't any children.' She smiled a rueful smile. 'Any mess I make is down to me.'

Yes, I thought, and how.

When we reached Ben's apartment building, I found I couldn't stand to let her go. So I walked her past the dozing janitor, through the empty lobby and then we rode the elevator up to the ninth floor.

I stood there while she rummaged in her handbag yeah, I was learning Britglish for the keys.

'Thank you for coming out with me tonight,' she said as she pushed the key into the lock. 'What do I owe you for the concert, meal and stuff?'

'You don't owe me anything at all.' I never let a woman pay. I do have some pride. 'Thank you for your company this evening.' Rosie, please invite me in, I begged her in my mind. No, don't that would be crazy. 'When did you say you're due to go back home?' I asked.

'I didn't, but my flight's on Friday evening.'

'So tomorrow will be your last day. Let's meet up tomorrow eightish, shall we? Go someplace for dinner?'

'Tess and Ben are coming home tomorrow.'

'Yeah, I know. The four of us could go for an Italian. Ben doesn't do adventurous with food and so American-Italian is just about as daring as it gets. I'll book a table, shall I?'

'Yes, that would be lovely. Well, it's getting late, and you must have to go to work tomorrow, so I'll say goodnight.'

'Goodnight sleep well sweet dreams.'

Why was I saying all this s.h.i.+t? Why didn't I take this woman in my arms and kiss and kiss and kiss her until she begged for mercy? Why didn't I go swim with alligators that would make more sense?

As I told myself to move, but somehow couldn't get my dumba.s.s legs to understand, my cell phone chirped.

I got a text from Ben.

The CEO of Ryder Books is taking Tess and me to lunch at the Algonquin Friday. Where Dottie Parker and Vicious Circle used to meet you know? I guess you don't, you ignorant mechanic! So could you see Rosie gets her plane?

ROSIE.

As Pat was scrolling through his texts and I was trying to stop myself from grabbing him and pulling him into the flat and tearing off his nice new s.h.i.+rt and making all those plastic b.u.t.tons ping across the room, I got a text from Tess.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. But we're not coming back for 3 more days. Ben wants to have lunch at this hotel where some old bat called Dottie Parker used to go. He's so excited. This evening, he was almost snogging Mr CEO! I said why don't u 2 get a room, not go to the Algongything hotel? Anyway, Ben's Then the text broke off.

Twenty seconds later I was counting and also watching Patrick Riley's fingers typing something, wis.h.i.+ng they were tapping out a text on me my mobile chirped again.

texted Pat and says he's sure he'll take u to the airport, see u off. I hope he will. Did u get to see him in the meantime? Did he meet u anywhere downtown? Did u have a coffee?

Gotta go! TX 'You must go and get some sleep,' I said to Pat.

'Yeah, I guess I must.' He pushed his phone into his pocket. 'Thank you for a pleasant evening, Rosie.'

I don't think I've ever felt so lonely as I watched him walk towards the lift, oblivious of the state in which he left me.

I was awake all night.

At half past seven the following morning, I got a call from Pat.

'Did I wake you?'

'No,' I told him as my heart began to thump.

'Do you have a busy day ahead?'

'Yes, fairly busy. I need to send some emails, write to people who might give me work and then sort out my website.'

Why didn't I say I was completely free, and when and where could we meet up, perhaps for lunch? Where were we going for dinner, was that still on tonight? But I suppose I'm British ...

'I expect you're busy, too?' I asked him.

'Yeah, I got a bunch of cla.s.ses, meeting with the dean, an article to finish, some papers to review the usual stuff. I'll see you later, shall I?'

'No.'

'I'm sorry? But I thought-'

'I don't have time for dinner, after all.' Why did I say that? I wanted more than anything to see him! So what was stopping me?

I was afraid.

We'd have dinner. He would bring me back to this apartment. So I would invite him in for coffee. Stuff would happen. Or I would do my best to make it happen, anyway.

But if something, anything should happen, where would that leave me? I'd have been a momentary diversion for a married man whose wife might want him back some day, and who was the father of two children. I'd go home and we would never meet again. So why meet at all?

'I have to do my packing,' I said lamely. 'I need to sort things out.'

'Of course you do. Okay, I'll take you to the airport.'