Читать книгу Starlight in New York - Helen Cox - Страница 9

It was 11:50pm, ten minutes till closing, and I was sweeping the diner floor when the bell hanging over the doorway chimed. I sighed, propped the broom up against the counter and turned to see him: Jack Faber. It was raining outside and he was soaked. Breathing heavy. Staring hard.

I stared straight back at him. At this time of night there was no escape. No diversion. No distraction. Besides Lucia, who was out back clearing the mess Bernie had made during his shift on the grill earlier that day, the place was deserted.

‘Can I…help you, sir?’ I heard a waver in my voice I tried hard to correct. Under no circumstances must he guess he’d been in my thoughts for a considerable chunk of the day.

‘Yes.’ He took a couple of steps towards me, casting a long shadow across the shiny lino. ‘You can call me Jack rather than sir.’

‘Alright.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Can I help you, Jack?’

‘I think…I need some coffee.’ He shuffled closer.

‘Take a seat. I’ll bring some over.’ I gestured to a table but he disregarded this and sat in the same stool he’d taken at the counter the previous morning. I glared at him behind his back. Why was he making this so difficult? He was going to force another conversation even though I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested. I walked over to the coffee machine, pushed at the thin, black frames on my glasses, nudging them a little further up the bridge of my nose, poured his drink and delivered it as quick as possible.

My plan was to hide out in the kitchen with Lucia until he got bored and went home but as I was setting down the cup his hand brushed against the back of mine. This time, to my surprise, I didn’t recoil like the other day. Like every other time anyone who might be considered an eligible boyfriend came within reach. Instead, I looked down at our hands sitting on the counter, just an inch apart. His fingers drew nearer and touched the tips of mine. Keeping my hand still, neither accepting nor spurning his advance, I looked back up at him.

With the exception of my friend Ryan back in England, who didn’t really count, the actor was the first man to touch me in two years. I’d forgotten what it felt like: the spark that shoots through your body when someone you want makes it clear they want you back. His touch was softer than the last I’d known. A warm dream rather than the clinical stranglehold I’d learnt to pretend to adore.

‘That’s enough,’ I said, snatching back my hand, trying to work out if that was longing surging through me, or panic. He eyed me for a moment, taking in the effect he’d had on me. I took a pointed step backward.

‘Did I do something to offend you?’ he asked with a noticeable slur.

‘Are you drunk?’ I looked harder at him and tilted my head to one side.

‘Pffft,’ he almost snorted. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘The stench of whiskey is a bit of a clue.’

At this, his eyes fell to the counter. He sat up straighter in his chair and ran a hand through his hair which was still damp from the rain.

‘I might have had one or two glasses with a friend. But drunk? Of course not.’ He gave me an oversized smile in an attempt to make a joke of the fact that he was somewhat squiffy.

‘Is that the truth or are you just acting sober?’

He smiled. ‘Oh, so you know who I am now?’

‘Not remotely –’ I leant back on the work surface behind me, crossing my arms ‘– but my colleagues tell me you are some form of minor celebrity.’

‘Minor?’ The skin around his eyes wrinkled as he narrowed them.

‘Yep. Minor.’ If I was borderline obnoxious to him for long enough maybe he’d take the hint and give up this unwelcome plight to get to know me. He sat there with his mouth half-open. Groping for his next words.

‘Well, your colleagues are an informative bunch. Especially Mona. When I came in this morning she told me you were working later tonight.’

‘Did she? How helpful of her.’ I made a mental note to spend a good ten minutes giving Mona my Death Look the following morning. ‘Well, she further informed me you’re starring in some sappy-sounding movie about a girl with amnesia.’

‘It’s not sappy. It’s a very heartfelt script.’ He paused to stir a fifth consecutive sugar packet into his coffee. ‘But it doesn’t surprise me that romance isn’t your favourite genre.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yeah. You seem a touch too level-headed for that.’ He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup.

‘I see. Any other dazzling insights? I mean, please, therapy is expensive over here so do go on.’

‘You pretend to be angrier than you really are.’ He pointed a playful finger as he spoke but I wasn’t to be drawn. Turning to the shelves behind me, I started stacking side plates.

‘Well, sorry you get that impression but you don’t know a thing about me.’ I could feel his eyes permeating, even with my back turned. The idea of him looking my body up and down should’ve made me shrivel. But instead, something stirred. An unusual twinge. Desire, simmering just beneath the skin.

‘Maybe that’s true but I’m a fast learner. And you never answered my question, by the way.’

‘Which one?’ I turned to face him. ‘You seem to be full of them.’

‘Did I do something to offend you?’ As he repeated his question the kitchen door creaked open ajar. Lucia had heard his voice from out back and was now, no doubt, enjoying the show.

‘No. It’s impossible for strangers to offend me. Their behaviour has nothing to do with me,’ I replied, wondering yet again what had caused the weird, wall-punching episode.

‘Strangers?’

‘Yeah. Strangers. People who don’t know you. At all.’

‘Well, I must’ve done something. Didn’t see you being so icy with Walt.’ He leant forward as he spoke.

‘Icy?’

‘Icy.’ He took a confident mouthful of coffee, clearly elated that he’d struck a nerve.

‘Do you wish to make a complaint about the service, sir? I can pass your number onto my boss in the morning?’ His eyes darted up and down as he looked at me. Was that aggravation or attraction?

‘Are you asking for my number?’ He leaned forward even further than before and looked, unblinking, into my eyes.

‘In your dreams,’ said my mouth but my face, against my will, moved closer to his. ‘I recommend you find yourself one of those polished and prim girls. You know, the type who think Pretty Woman is a genuinely romantic movie, and have time for manicures and will sit on a bar stool for hours laughing at your jokes. Go find one of them. I’m not about to become a founding member of the Jack Faber fan club.’

‘A woman who likes her movies but hates actors. That’s…that’s novel.’ He looked into my eyes and then down at my lips.

Lucia poked her head further round the kitchen door. ‘Hey Esther, it’s almost twelve. You locked up?’

‘Uh, just about to, Lu.’ I looked at Jack. He had the start of some wrinkles on his forehead that knitted together when there was something he didn’t understand. Attractive and on the brink of movie stardom, I reasoned he was unused to women showing any reluctance. But I was sure the curiosity my foot-dragging had sparked in him was only temporary.

‘Alright. I suppose I’m finished.’ Jack stood and pulled on his sodden suede jacket. Something about the way his hair hung forward as he did so roused an emptiness inside me. Maybe it was his accent reminding me of home or maybe I still had the words from the old man at Coney echoing in my ears but in that moment I wanted to be close to him. If only for one evanescent night. No consequences. No conversations. Just skin against skin. Of course, when I opened my mouth to speak no sound came out.

Jack noticed my attempt and seized on it anyway. ‘Do you want me to wait while you shut up shop and I’ll walk you home?’ His eyes were wider than before. Perhaps with hope or maybe he was just starting to sober.

‘No, but thanks,’ I said in a gentler tone. ‘It wouldn’t be worth your time. I just live around the corner. So…’

‘You say that but you managed to get mugged between here and there in broad daylight.’ He rested his hands on the counter, and flashed his roguish smile at me.

‘I’m not sure I have a sense of humour about that yet.’ I hung my head to one side and pursed my lips.

‘Wait, you have a sense of humour?’

I let out a quiet laugh in spite of myself.

‘So whereabouts do you live?’ he asked, edging towards me with the same caution an animal-control officer might exhibit whilst entrapping a mad dog.

‘If you must know, on Clinton Street.’ I took off my apron and folded it up on the counter. ‘The rent is so pricey I live largely on leftovers from this place but I wanted to be on that street. It’s mentioned in this Leonard Cohen record I’ve always loved.’

‘Oh. “Famous Blue Raincoat”.’

At this, I looked at him and now it was my turn to frown.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s right.’

‘It’s a powerful song.’ He smiled – not his charming, glitzy smile but a softer, subtler version that was somehow more appealing.

‘Yes. It, it is. I went through this phase when I was a teenager of listening to it every day. It’s sort of hauntingly beautiful for reasons I’ve never been able to articulate.’ He nodded as though he understood. ‘Anyway…’ I said, remembering myself, and Jack’s fist crashing at the wall just yesterday.

‘You sure you don’t want me to walk you home?’ he asked, and his hands, still resting on the counter, moved closer to mine. ‘I’d be glad of the company.’

‘Look. I … it’s kind of you to offer. But I’m fine.’

‘I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. Just to make sure you get home alright.’

My eyes widened.

He froze, understanding he’d said something he shouldn’t have – though he couldn’t have known what. In a split second the raw throb of all I wanted to forget came screaming back to me and, as a result, I all but screamed at him.

‘I don’t need your help, OK?’ My face had reddened. ‘I don’t need you to be nice to me or walk me home. Allow me to quench your unsolicited curiosity: I’m ordinary, alright? I’m nobody. I just want to do my job and live quietly. That’s all I want. So just… just sod off and leave me alone.’

Jack’s frown evolved into a scowl. He shook his head before pushing an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘Psycho,’ he muttered, his voice glacial. Something dark and unspoken weighed heavy across his brow. Creasing the skin.

I swallowed hard. Psycho was a bit unfair. I wasn’t running the Motel o’ Death, I just couldn’t be entrapped once again by a beautiful face. For all her mistakes, that one was mine. My weakness for a strong jawline was the lightning bolt that had birthed the late Mrs Delaney. I was her Frankenstein; she was my creature.

I opened my mouth to ask if he thought all the women uninterested in dating him were psychos but shame over my outburst kept me quiet. Jack fixed his eyes on the counter, laying down ten dollars in a slow, deliberate manner.

‘Keep the change,’ he said, not even looking at me before storming out into the rain.