Ping. It’s a message from her, no doubt – from Lucy. It will be a suggestion for dinner. She won’t take “no” for an answer. I ignore it. Mrs West will have placed my dinner in my apartment’s oven, on a timer. My table place will be set, overlooking the city skyline; a small, healthy, covered salad waiting for me in the refrigerator; a suitable bottle of accompanying wine, uncorked; my favorite glass beside it on the table. I like my new living arrangements. At least I’ve liked them until this evening.
My telephone pings again. I don’t like messages. Nobody messages me. It has to be Lucy. Already she is nagging me, though to be fair, the phone always pings twice.
Or it could be Jill again. Occasionally one of the boys breaks an arm or leg, and she’ll want a referral, a quick fix from one of my old medical colleagues.
Then the phone rings and a panel lights up on a screen. Lucy’s face is all over the dashboard, alarmingly engaging, even more beautiful than I remember, and I have nowhere to hide. I had no idea Jamison’s car did this. Technology has gone too far. I stab at a button on the steering wheel to make her go away; to cancel the call; to give her a busy signal – anything to make her disappear, but unfortunately I’ve pressed the wrong tab – fog lights are on. What?
“Dirk?” Lucy says, and punctuates her greeting with another smile. Her father must have been an orthodontist. My heart jumps and quivers, and I stop just in time for a red light.
“Yes.” It comes out more gruffly than I intend, but I don’t need this woman in my life. Jill was right. The sooner Lucy realizes it the better. This car, this woman – high octane.
Lucy’s smile drops a notch. I must have scowled. I’m ashamed. I’m not cruel. I just don’t like to waste my time; nor hers.
“Look, Lucy,” I say. “Nothing personal. I’m busy.”
“Of course you are,” she says, eyes bright as an amusement park. She shields them with her long lashes, dims them, contrite. Then her words rush out like snowmelt down a mountain. “So sorry to interrupt you. You’re busy. I knew it. How extraordinary that we should agree so well already, Dirk. I just wanted to thank you for paying for the dress this morning. I won’t keep you, though you might be interested to know that the coffee washed out of it perfectly. I have the gown on now, and it’s as good as brand new. You see? Thank you. You were very generous, Dirk, but I really must pay you back.”
“The stain. Oh. Good. Right. Fine. No need to pay me back.”
There’s silence.
Surely she’ll argue.
“It was my fault,” I say, surprising myself. Now I don’t want the conversation to end. There’s music in her voice, a lilt. She’s engaging; not that I’m looking for an engagement.
“No. Not at all,” she says. “I rang to let you know that I realize I was at least fifty per cent to blame. I was walking backwards – never a good idea. And I must pay ...”
“No,” I say abruptly, aiming for a firm tone of disinterest to make her go away. I search again for some way of ending the call, but Lucy pushes her own phone away from herself and holds it up high, to show me the dress. Even as the traffic lights turn green, the screen hijacks my attention. The gown stands out from her waist as she gives it a twirl. There’s a glimpse of creamy shoulders and that stunning V at the back, all but bare.
“I need to focus on driving,” I say, gruff. This Lucy is reeling me in like a fish, like Jill warned; showing herself off like bait. And I am the kingfish, ready to chase her all the way.
The headlights turn on automatically, still set on fog. No idea how to fix them.
“Well, you’re so busy, I won’t keep you.” And she’s gone, just like that; the dashboard blank – devastatingly empty – the vision of Lucy in the gown a phantom behind my eyes, set to haunt me.
My apartment is peaceful and still as I enter and toss the keys in the wide brass bowl on the hall table. This is usually my favorite part of the day. I inhale deeply. There’s a strong aroma of beef casserole with a faint underlay of cleaning fluids. Fresh lilies stand tall on the sideboard.
I loosen my tie and undo the top two buttons. I slip off my shoes and place them on the rack in the hall cupboard to air, then survey my domain. Everything is in its proper place. It’s calm. Peaceful; exactly how I like it – so why am I so restless? I pull out my phone, stare at the blank screen and frown. The scent of Lucy is all but gone. Not so the memory of her smile, nor the vision of her in Jill’s green gown.
I pad across the soft new carpet and into the kitchen, where I serve myself the perfect portion of dinner and take it to my dining table.
The city lights twinkle. Usually I press the button and music fills my apartment, Greig or Rachmaninoff or Beethoven, but my head rings with Lucy’s words. If she doesn’t want an affair, what does she want? Worse, what doesn’t she want?
I lift my fork, then drop it. It clatters on the table. I pull out my phone again and study her message.
It’s an emoji, the one with hands together, supposedly in thanks, but surprisingly like a prayer. Is that all? And, if it is a prayer, what exactly is her wish?
