‘Obviously,’ I said, and then thought about it for a moment. ‘Oh. Got it. Blood out of a stone is like information out of me.’ I laughed at this one. It actually did make sense, and I enjoyed it. Andrew shot me a small smile. It made my skin hot. I liked his smiles. I especially liked the way they made me feel. I probably liked them much more than I should like them. I turned my attention to my feet as Andrew launched into the story that we’d told so many times already: radio chatter, coffee shop, recognized each other’s voices. We didn’t even know each other’s names and faces.
But today, for some reason, I was hearing the story through a totally different filter. The story was actually true: thatishow we met, and if we were a real couple, this would be one of those really cute romantic-comedy stories. The kind you would tell at a wedding, the kind you would tell your kids, and the kind of story that they would tell their partners when they grew up. It would keep going as a story until one day at a funeral someone would tell the story of how Granny and Grandpa met all those years ago. What a true love story it all was. How fate had brought them together.
‘Did Pippa tell you how Vernon and I met?’ my mom asked when Andrew had finished.
Andrew shook his head.
‘It was so romantic too. He saved my life.’ I rolled my eyes. I always did, because truthfully, he hadn’t technically saved her life, but in my mom’s world, he had. The story wasn’t as dramatic as lifesaving in the traditional sense – a lifeguard plunging into choppy seas, dragging a lifeless body to shore, performing CPR, or a surgeon restarting someone’s heart with electrical paddles. My mother had had a botched boob job that my father had fixed; that was my mom’s version of having her life saved. And I could see that once she’d told the story, Andrew looked confused but played along and expounded on what a romantic story it was. Then my parents looked deep into each other’s eyes and grasped hands. They were so in love! They were Gomez and Morticia Addams, unable to keep their hands and eyes off each other. It had been wildly embarrassing to me when I was younger, but now, it just fascinated me.
I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable enough with someone to stare into their eyes for hours and hold hands without feeling like my fingers might fall off and my palms might melt from the hot sweat.
Flutes of champagne were handed out and sipped as we watched the sun sink out of sight. I was silent for most of the time, while Andrew happily chatted to my parents. He was brilliant at it. He was so at ease with people. Relaxed, like one of those huge La-Z-Boy recliner chairs that demand to be climbed into. He asked just the right questions that kept them talking and laughing. He answered all their questions perfectly, thoughtfully, throwing in some jokes as well. The conversation flowed, it was reciprocal, words bounced back and forth and everyone had their chance to speak. I observed it all, again fascinated by the way people intrinsically knew how to wait their turn to talk, how they didn’t just jump in, cut someone off, and knew what volume to keep their voice at, and what tone was right for the moment.
And by the end of the hour Andrew and my parents had covered growing up, studying, career, aspirations, thoughts on politics and why fondant was no longer the preferred icing choice for wedding cakes. They’d even found a common link between them; my dad’s foundation, which provided pro bono plastic surgery to vulnerable children with facial disfigurations, had worked on one of Andrew’s parents’ foster children who’d been a victim of terrible domestic violence. My dad and mom expressed a desire to meet Andrew’s parents as soon as possible, and dinner arrangements were talked about.
My stomach dropped. We were fake boyfriend and girlfriend. Our parents werenotmeant to meet each other. That wasnotpart of the plan. In fact, many things seemed to be deviating from the plan lately, things that were starting to make this arrangement feel too real, which it was not.
‘Shall we head inside for dinner?’ my mom asked after the last drop of champagne had been drained from the bottle. This was my mother’s favorite thing to do, hosting people for dinner parties and events. You could never simply come over for a casual evening at my parents’ house, everything was pomp and ceremony, no matter how small the gathering and how insignificant the event. We walked inside and Andrew made some more ‘ooh’ing sounds.
‘This is a very impressive home you have here, Mr and Mrs Edwards.’
‘Oh, please call us Wen and Vern,’ my mom insisted, turning to him. ‘And thank you. We worked very hard for every inch of it, and I decorated every inch of it too.’
This was true, actually, because despite both coming from money, they’d never used that money to build this house or buy fancy cars; that, they’d done all on their own with their unwavering work ethics. They had instilled the value of hard work in me from a very early age, something I appreciated. Hard work, and a passion for whatever you did, were things I admired greatly in people. Something I admired greatly in Andrew and his family. It dawned on me that our families, despite outward appearances of difference, would probably get on very well. Linda the dress designer and my mom would talk for hours about the latest trends in wedding-dress design. My dad and his moms would chat about his charitable foundation – his true passion. Shaleen the librarian and my mom would probably get lost in books for weeks; my mom had run her book club for over thirty years and, when she wasn’t wedding planning, she was reading. And my dad would finally have someone to talk about golf to, another one of his favorite activities. This thought made me warm inside for a second, and then bitterly cold.
As usual, dinner was an extravagant affair. My mom had cooked black truffle and ricotta ravioli from scratch, followed by home-made pistachio gelato. She’d taken an Italian cooking course once and, whether you liked Italian food or not, that was what you were served in this house. In fact, that stretched to most things; whether you liked an Italian interior-design aesthetic, that didn’t matter either. It was what you got. Same went for her playing Pavarotti at full volume or putting Parmesan on absolutely everything.
There’d been general chatter throughout dinner but, for some reason, when the port had been brought out and my father suggested ‘retiring’ to the lounge with it, the conversation changed.
‘So tell me, Andrew, what are your intentions with our Pippa?’
‘Mom,’ I scolded immediately.
‘It’s a very legitimate question to ask the young man who is dating my only child,’ she qualified.
I hung my head and shook it with embarrassment.
But Andrew didn’t miss a beat. ‘I suppose I’d like to have more fun getting to know her better, enjoying our time together, uncovering more common interests and shared values and goals.’
‘And what are your shared values and goals?’ My dad was the one quizzing him now.
‘I know Pippa wants to manage her own airport one day, and I’d like to be flying internationally soon. A3080s, to be specific.’
‘Those are very demanding jobs, a lot of time away from each other. A lot of pressure,’ my dad put to him.
‘But I think one of the things Pippa and I like most about each other is our passion for aviation. It’s part of who we are, and I would support her in her dreams of running an airport, and I would certainly love to land my A3080 there as often as possible.’ He turned to me, and something in his tone had changed.What was it? Why was his voice softer now?‘That’s if . . .’ He paused, looked at me for the longest time. ‘If she’ll allow me to?’ He smiled that bloody smile again. The smile that warmed me, even though I knew this was a scientific impossibility. An outside stimulus, like a smile, could in no way change your internal temperature. The room fell silent. I looked around and realized that everyone was waiting for me to say something.
‘Uh . . . Yes, well, if his plane had permission to land there, obviously, and also if he has the requisite training to do the specific approach, as well as the permit and—’
Everyone at the table laughed and, for the briefest moment, Andrew touched my arm. The touch was more of a brush, and yet the brush caused my temperature to rise once more. I was not perimenopausal, was I? What age did that start?I made a note to google that. I picked up a magazine and fanned my face but realized that had been a bad idea when I caught my mother smiling at me. I dropped the magazine quickly and stole a sideways glance at Andrew.
There was zero logic to it, no explanation, but he looked hotter tonight, sitting there in my parents’ home, than he’d ever looked before. Talking, joking and laughing with them. It was as if the environment had somehow affected his appearance. Maybe it was the Italian aesthetic – maybe it was bringing out some kind of irresistible Mediterranean vibe in him. Or perhaps the difference lay in me, in the way I was now perceiving him. I’d never brought anyone home before, and Andrew felt like he fitted here.
‘I want to show you something,’ Andrew said when we’d pulled up to his house.
‘What?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
