I step off Shaftesbury Avenue onto a side street and am jarred by the sudden appearance of nipple tassels, whips, dildos and a shop that must sell the ultimate in deviant merchandise as its windows are fully blacked out. The whole twisted little street is packed with sex shops. I had no idea London was so sordid.
I laugh. My first laugh in a long time.
The next turn reinstates a buzzy but respectable London, like I popped out of a seedy white rabbit hole. I locate the upscale Japanese restaurant where I’m due to meet my best friend Lena. Oh, and her work colleagues, even though it’s our last night, even though Lena and I haven’t had an evening to ourselves all week. I push through the door and scan the room for her. It’s buzzing with Friday-night- on-the-town revelers, but she’s not here. There’s one last seat at the bar. I can’t help but feel a little rejected as I squeeze onto the trendy barstool. But what was I expecting? On the plus side, Lena’s tardiness gives me a little time to write. I take out my notebook. I uncap my pen. I chew the pen cap. I hail the bartender. “A glass of Sauvignon Blanc, please.”
I know my writer’s block is connected to the breakup. I don’t understand what that connection is, but frankly I don’t care. I just want it all to shift, for this depressing segment of my life to end. The bartender places my wine in front of me, and I nod my thanks. Okay. Write anything. Just make a start. I write:
“Anything.
Anyone lived in a pretty how town...”
One of my favorite poems but not gonna get me anywhere. Who am I kidding? Why would I be able to come up with an idea in the few seconds before Lena walks in? The wine’s delicious. I’m away from home. I’m in a trendy London hot spot that’s brimming with well-heeled folk. All is well. I pull out my phone so that I can log onto the restaurant’s wi-fi. I hate waiting for my phone to connect. Then six new texts spill in. Make that seven. Eight. My heart wants it to be Jonathan, but there’s only one person who rapid-fire texts me.
Louise
Earth to Louise
How’s The Big Smoke?
I had a big smoke last night
I feel like a cow shat on my head and then I ate a cow shit sandwich. And Mom keeps picking on me to get my shit together when really, will her shit ever be together?
Oh, and Dad has a new lady friend. No surprise there.
At least she’s not young enough to be our long lost big sis
When are you coming back again??? Can you tell I’m bored?
the whole idea behind you living with Mom was to be bored.
But if that’s not working out, go get a job
Thanks Louise. I’ll put that to the committee
Do you think we really have a long lost big sis somewhere?
Nope. Just us in this nuthouse
Not that you’re here
And I’m not at Mom’s to be bored. I’m here to realign my life but how the hell can I do that when she harasses me all the time?
What are you doing now anyway?
Working
Stop! You’re on vacation!
A playwright’s job is never done
You got anything?
Yeah. I’m in the middle of being a genius.
Flying back tomorrow. Talk then?
Maybe I’ll come down to the city to hang out
Let’s go to that sushi place near you
Or we can order in Chinese and watch a movie?
bc you’ll prob b jetlagged
K. I’ll call you
I shut off my phone. My little brother Mattie is on the verge of mania again. I know this is what’s happening because my stomach starts to ache.
Now I really want Jonathan. He may have partied too much, but he always knew how to make me stop worrying about Mattie. Oh Jonathan. I gave him back the engagement ring. I gave the sweater that smelled like him to the Salvation Army (after sleeping with it for two weeks). And I have not spoken with him once this entire six months. Well, I may have texted him. I did. I couldn’t help it. It turned out to be an exercise in humiliation. He didn’t reply. So I text- ed him again. I couldn’t help myself. It was awful. I could see that he didn’t even bother to read my text until two full days after I’d sent it, and even then he didn’t reply. So no, I haven’t spoken to him.
I close my eyes and he fills my mind so vividly that I would swear he was here, the warm cocoon of him surrounding me. His smell... can I seriously smell him?
I open my eyes. To my right, a woman sips what looks like a dirty martini. The fresh scent of olive juice. Jonathan loves dirty martinis.
I love Jonathan. He’s my martini.
I want to text him so badly it hurts and I am so sick of this hurt. I want it to stop. Someone make it stop. I want to scream cry yell at the top of my lungs. I write in my notebook, “FUCK THIS SHIT.”
I hear a chuckle. It’s the man on the stool next to me. Reading over my shoulder. I feel his gaze and my face starts to heat. I turn to face him, make direct eye contact. “Can I help you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, really cramped quarters, I couldn’t help but read...” He indicates my notebook. “Having a good day, then?” He’s very nice-looking. Blue eyes, that lovely British accent. “Can I buy you a drink?”
The man clearly wants to flirt and I don’t. “I already have one. Thanks.”
“Ah. Sorry to bother you.” He turns away from me.
I pause and reconsider. Wasn’t the point of coming to London to stop moping and have some fun? And here’s a great-looking man with his enchanting speech pattern. I put away my notebook. I say, “You’re not bothering me. This obviously isn’t the place for inspiration.”
He turns back to me, smiling. “I’m Charlie.”
“Kat.”
“Katherine?”
He makes my name sound so elegant, but: “I prefer Kat.” “And you’re a poet?”
“Playwright.”
“Ah! I thought you’d written out a poem. That’s what I get for snooping. Misinformation.” His eyes twinkle at me. I smile. “Give me your favorite quote from a play.”
“That’s tough.” I want to impress him. “I guess I’d go with, ‘I don’t want realism. I want magic.’”
“Who’s that?”
“Blanche Dubois. Streetcar?”
“Oh yeah, very good. I’ve never seen it. Though of course I’ve
heard of it.”
“She goes on to say something about how she lies... well, misrep-
resents the truth, in order to give people magic.”
Charlie swirls the ice in his drink. “We could all do with a little
magic.”
“That’s what I think.” I sip my wine, turn my body to face him
squarely. “So what’s your quote?”
“Well, I don’t have a quote from a play. But I could give you a
poem?”
“Sure.”
He finds a spot at the ceiling to stare at. “I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox/ and which you were probably saving for breakfast/ Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold.”
He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The poem hangs between us.
When he finally looks at me, his face is candid, as if we’ve been lovers for decades. I feel like I could kiss him. I manage to say, “We should all have that one memorized.”
“Kat!” Lena waddles up to the bar, her very pregnant body only slightly at odds with the sleekness of the place because even seven months pregnant, Lena exudes grace. She’s one of those women who looks amazing 24/7/365. And she’s the whole package: cool job, French husband, a girl at home, a boy in the oven, and Russian bone structure to die for. If she weren’t one of my best friends, I’d hate her. She hugs me. “I see you’ve already met Charlie.”
I ask Charlie, “You’re one of Lena’s work colleagues?”
Lena assesses the situation in a flash. “Charlie, were you hitting on my friend?”
He smiles down at his now empty glass. “We were discussing poetry.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Lena explains to me, “Charlie’s a manage- ment consultant from a big firm here called JCK. Thankfully his firm does pro bono work so he restructured our London office. I’ve been following him around all week because I’m going to have to replicate his changes back in Paris.” Lena manages the Paris-based team of a human rights organization. She turns to Charlie, “Kat’s a playwright in New York. I’ve known her almost all my life. She’s like a sister to me so step wisely.”
“I shall consider myself fairly warned.” Charlie bows. We both kind of chuckle. His eyes are twinkling away at me. Then he moves on to speak with another colleague.
Lena’s inspecting me so I sip my wine and ask, “How’s the bump doing?” I know she wants to say something about this Charlie fellow.
I’d bet anything she thinks he’s the perfect way to get over Jonathan, but she politely follows my lead and details the kicks of her day.
A round table in a private alcove. Ten of us. I’m disappointed that I’m seated across from Charlie instead of next to him. Since I met him about five seconds ago, this strikes me as insane in a des- perate-woman-way, so I do my best to pay zero attention to him. Still, I can’t help but notice that a lot of compliments head his way. I comment to Lena, “Charlie seems to be the man of the evening.”
“He helped our London office make some tough decisions, and as a result of his work it’s running much smoother.” She pauses. “I’ve spent a fair amount of time with him this week, and he seems like a great guy. Plus, I found out today that he’s single. So you should totally go for it.”
“I knew you were plotting something. Not going to happen.” “You should!”
“You know I don’t do one-night stands, so... what? I’m going to
start dating someone who lives in London?”
“A one-night stand could be just what the doctor ordered.” “Please.”
“Isn’t the reason you came to stop mooning over Jonathan?”
“I came to see you,” I tell her. She looks at me. She knows as
well as I do that we’ve had zero time together. I’m angry, but I also feel bad. Lena works hard. So rather than see who blinks first, I turn my attention to the man sitting on my other side and make small talk. Another one of Lena’s human rights colleagues from the London office.
As we chitchat, I think I can feel Charlie’s eyes on me. I glance over. His eyes are on me. I smile at him. He smiles back.
