Читать книгу Him - Cecilia Scott - Страница 11

Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

John Galsworthy, The Forsyte Saga

This is what I understood: my life had been on hold since the day my mother got sick. After she died, I continued to live but only marginally. And then I met HIM. HIM. It was only after he came into my life that I could see how cut off I’d been from the rest of the world. I had taken the mournful road.

He and I ate breakfast in the room, then left. He kissed me softly in the hotel lobby. He did not set up another date, though I’d hoped he would, so by the time I arrived at college I was on the verge of tears. The students sensed I was vulnerable and remained quiet and passive.

When I got home later I couldn’t stop crying. My tears were the inevitable aftermath of a tryst with HIM, the price I paid for being with HIM.

I quickly changed out of my work clothes and put on an old pair of pajamas. I looked into the mirror and thought I was the exact opposite of the pretty, sexy woman who’d been fucked over and over at a downtown hotel the evening before.

I lit a fire and sat on my sofa looking at the burning logs. But it did not soothe me. I was still weepy. I couldn’t stop thinking about HIM. Esme jumped up on the couch and curled into my lap.

The sex. My God, the sex. He and I were pushing the envelope together. He’d taken me further than I’d gone with anyone. I suspected it was the same for HIM.

I wanted HIM inside me that very moment, to be with HIM night and day, 24/7. I could not live without HIM.

I could not stop crying. Sam came to my door in the late afternoon, holding an empty pie pan. I opened the screen door and took it from him. He looked at my swollen eyes and face. He asked me if I wanted to talk about it. I shook my head.

‘Do you want me to come in?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Well, you know where to find me. The pie was delicious as always.’

I watched him retreat and closed the door. I was feeling so desperate. I found my phone and quickly wrote to HIM.

ME: Where r u? Last night (and this morning) was so amazing.

I waited for HIM to write me back. The wait was excruciating.

When a text message arrived, it had been sent from one of my students who wanted to know when an essay was due. I felt like throwing the phone across the room but quickly texted her back.

Hours later, my phone vibrated again. My heart soared only to crash when I saw that the text was from a telemarketer. Every minute without a text from HIM was empty. My patience was non-existent.

Someone with a foreign accent called me on my cell next. He’d dialled the wrong number. Instead of being polite I screamed at him. What was wrong with me?

Then finally, finally …

HIM: U were spectacular.

ME: I want u inside me all the time.

HIM: I’m abt to catch plane 2 Paris.

ME: WHAT?

HIM: Yes. On biz.

ME: U didn’t say anything.

HIM: I didn’t?

ME: No. Nothing. Why didn’t u say anything?

HIM: I was busy fucking u.

ME: K. But.

HIM: Stop being garrulous. I won’t put up with it.

ME: Meaning?

HIM: I like you a lot but I won’t put up with a needy woman.

ME: You just sprung this Paris trip on me. Not fair.

HIM: Plenty of time to catch up when I get back.

ME: Yes. How long gone?

HIM: 10 days.

ME: 2 long.

HIM: Wish u could be in my hotel rm in Paris.

ME: Me 2.

HIM: U r an incredible lover.

ME: So r u.

HIM: Miss you already.

I hated that he was so far away. I despised that my life seemed so narrow while his was wide open. He was in Paris while I remained in a suburb of a vast forsaken city. It would take me at least six months to save enough money to buy a coach seat on a plane to Europe. I’d have to consider staying at youth hostels even though I would now probably be older than most of the other people staying there. I’d grown up in the neighbourhood where I was born. I’d moved into my landlord’s duplex in part because it was less than a mile away from my mother’s place.

He told me he travelled business class. He said he stayed at four-star hotels and often employed a driver for his international trips. He acted in a self-important manner. I resented HIM for it yet I also admired his social and professional status. I knew I didn’t have a fake bone in my body. What you saw was what you got. That might not be so with HIM. I believe image was important to HIM. Yet I wanted HIM to acknowledge me in his life as an equal, not this common woman he liked to fuck. When he said he was going to Paris I felt left out. Why couldn’t I accompany HIM? There was the matter of my leaving my job during that time. But if we were together, really together, then he would make room for me during these business trips. He’d never invited me to his apartment. I wondered whether I would ever meet his children.

And he never gave me much warning (if any) about these trips. He’d disappeared to Seattle and now to France. He could still be in our city with his wife or another woman. What I did know was that he was not with me right then. He was very far away, wherever he was. Scott Peterson, the famous wife-killer, had called his mistress and told her he was in Paris when in fact he was at a barbecue in Stockton. I always thought it so ironic. Stockton was the polar opposite of Paris. It would be like comparing hot dogs to lobster. And Scott Peterson had gone so far as to mention the fireworks over the Paris sky. Was my lover another Scott Peterson?

I hated that I was in so deep with HIM. There was no trust between us. Yet I lusted after HIM despite my suspicions that he was not being honest with me. What was I to do, tell HIM to send me a photo of himself in front of the Eiffel Tower?

Thinking about HIM in Paris made me think about the novels I had read over the years. Always, always, unrequited love was the central theme. Was I now my own tragic heroine in the novel I called my life?