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Micah, my two-year affair, had been a disaster. A serious fuck-up according to my sister, who had judged him insufficient the moment she met him. I’d thought her harsh. Given that we disagreed on many issues, I’d ignored her warnings. It had been infuriating when I found out she was right.
It had begun well. An undergraduate at the university, he certainly had brains. Privately educated, spoon fed financially by his parents, he’d never worked and had no idea how to live responsibly. I’d fallen for his charm. He could beguile with his eloquent speech and wit. I’d met him at a party. Although I wasn’t a student, I’d socialized on the periphery since two of my friends from school went to Trinity College. Micah, wearing a tuxedo, knew how to play the part of a playboy. Dazzling from the outset, he’d flattered me with easy banter and I’d succumbed.
He’d fritted away his money on clothes and drink. Ashamed to admit it to his parents, he’d borrowed from me and I’d foolishly filled his pockets with small change. It added up and before I knew it, I’d let him sleep in my house, fed him and entertained his friends.
He’d trampled over me, shunned my friends and sneered at me in a drunken haze. I’d agreed to him fucking me to keep him quiet—a complete waste of my virginity. Boy, did it rile me still. He’d spun me out with the knack of polite regret. He’d sobered up then been all apologetic and sweet. It had taken the last six months of our toxic relationship for me to acknowledge that we weren’t going anywhere.
When I’d sent him packing after a major argument over money he owed me, he’d shrugged, collected his things from my drawers, stuffed them in a bag and left. After the initial jubilance of ditching him, I felt hollow, empty and despondent. He’d kept me company for two years and his absence had ended my social life. His friends had become mine and little else was left save the orchestra.
I had mourned him briefly. Then, after Charlene gave me one of her told-you-so speeches, I’d woken up and defended my relationship. I’d learned a lot from him. Blow jobs, I’d confessed. She’d shrieked down the telephone, telling me to hush and something about having no shame. Neither did big sis have any interest in my knowing how to mix a mean cocktail or how to watch my pennies because nobody else would. I refused to become bitter about my failure and brushed off Charlene’s criticisms and my mum’s sympathetic platitudes.
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Waiting to see Stefan, the rest of the week dragged. I clock-watched my way through work on Thursday and Friday, and when it came to Saturday, I relied on it being Valentine’s Day to make the day pass quicker. The shop heaved with walk-in customers, mainly men. Al dashed out to do deliveries and the store of red roses rapidly vanished. By teatime we were down to a few bunches.
My fingers ached from bundling up stems and trimming leaves. The pungent fragrance of roses, which at the beginning of the day almost reeked, had long since vaporized. I doubted I could smell anything. I trudged home and wallowed in a lavender bath, a different aroma.
I couldn’t sleep. I probably did, but it seemed as though I lay awake all night. I mentally played my clarinet, imagining myself having lessons. It had been years since anyone had taught me. I’d passed my Grade 8 in my late teens and everyone had expected me to apply to music college. I froze that summer. Locked myself in a spell of belated grief for my father and refused to countenance any more studying. I wanted freedom, so as soon as I’d saved a deposit for rent, I moved out and started working for Bridget.
Tossing about in my bed, I stroked my belly. My mum thought I was skinny, Micah had told me I was perfect, while I compared myself to fashion models and found myself wanting. Did Stefan find me attractive? My hair, long and flowing, I generally tied back. My eyes, light and surrounded by bountiful lashes, were my saving grace. The rest of me, I didn’t rate highly. I dressed plainly and hid my narrow waist.
Shit! I sat up in bed. What would I wear? I switched on my light, rummaged through my wardrobe and contemplated my meager collection. A dress? I didn’t bother in the winter months, as I hated tights. My longest skirt looked frumpy.
“Callie?” Talia tapped on my door. “Are you all right?” Her Polish accent crisply delivered even in the middle of the night.
“Er, fine. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” I quietly shut my wardrobe.
“No problem. Just checking.”
I heard her footsteps, then the door to her bedroom closed.
Jeans and a sweatshirt. At a quarter to eleven, wearing the simplest of combinations, I waited in the hallway for the BMW to pull up. It was supposed to be a music session, not a fashion show. So what did it matter what I wore? I didn’t intend to do anything else but play my clarinet and politely eat Stefan’s lunch.
Chapter Three
He didn’t look much different—the same black jeans with a blue polo shirt. We exchanged greetings and once again, there I was in the front seat of his BMW, except this time he drove me out of town to his house. It gave me a sense of evenness. He knew where I lived. Now he was returning the favor.
Words vacated my inquisitive mind. I fell strangely dumb. Staring out of the windshield, I fiddled with a large button on my coat. Its thread had nearly worn through. What was it about Stefan that caused me to flounder? I wanted to be there in his car. At the same time, it would have been easy to ask him to pull over and let me out—run away. I didn’t. The reason why became increasingly apparent. Electric pulses of excitement whipped around my body. I tried to ignore them, but they made their presence known, those shooting waves of tingles.
“So you work at a florist.” He broke the awkward silence. “Not a career as a musician?”
Another example of a blunt Stefan question. It pitched me straight into the deep end of my emotional pool of nerves. “What’s wrong with being a florist?” I bounced back indignantly.
“I wasn’t implying anything was wrong. I’m just surprised you didn’t study music.”
I screwed the button around, nearly snapping the thread. “How do you know I didn’t?”
He cruised down the street, weaving past parked cars. “You have a tone, a sweet sound. I’d assumed you’d been tutored beyond school. Yet… You’re a florist.”
The button flew off. I grabbed at it before it toppled into the footwell. I was destroying my own coat. “But you imply I’ve failed because I’m a florist? And no, I’ve not studied. I left school at eighteen and went to work.”
He lifted his hands off the steering wheel briefly. “Whoa.”
“No, don’t make out it wasn’t your first thought. Just a florist. It takes creativity and a fair amount of knowledge to turn a bunch of flowers into an artistic presentation. Bridget has won awards, given talks at garden centers. I’m proud to work for her.”
“I’m sorry,” he said swiftly. “It was ungracious of me to suggest you didn’t have a career.” He curled his hand around the gear stick, stroking it.
I waited for him to speak. Things had not gotten off to a good start. How would I take his criticism when I played my clarinet for him? For him? No, for me. I would keep it selfishly to myself for the time being. Stefan hadn’t won me over yet.
