Archibald Full Frontal, page 4
“Dance?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
I shrug, feeling daring, and wade onto the dance floor. I look back at him, but he soon disappears as I am swept up in the eddy of moving bodies. Slightly dizzy, I dance and turn. I close my eyes, lost in drunken anonymity. I sway off balance and am pushed by an unseen arm. I knock directly into Sam.
“I thought maybe you could use some help,” he says into my ear, as the music stops. “Wanna get out of here?”
“One more dance,” I say as the band starts up. A saxophone moans in the darkness. We are shoved closer together by all of the bodies crammed onto the tiny dance floor. My head falls against his chest, which smells of salt and beer. I can feel his legs against mine. I tilt my head up, not expecting his face to be so close. Then I am pushed forward by an elbow. He puts his arms up to steady me, and as he does I slip my mouth against his. Like an involuntary sigh, I am unaware of it even beginning. But he kisses me back, and it’s as though our mouths are old friends just waiting to be reintroduced. A tingly warmth spreads through my neck and shoulders, settling in my stomach. I slip my arms upwards, feeling the muscles of his back tense and relax beneath his shirt. I’ve thought about this since the night in the garden, I realize. Then the music stops, and he pulls back abruptly, frowning.
“We should go,” he says firmly. I look at him, confused.
Outside, I follow him to his motorcycle. His head is down, preoccupied; he hasn’t said two words since we left the club.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. It had been a good kiss, well on its way to a second. Was it my breath? I worry. We had both had copious amounts of garlic. It couldn’t have stood out.
He stops. I stumble briefly, and he waits. “It isn’t you, it’s just … there’s something I meant to tell you earlier.”
It hits me. A slap to the back of my head. What an idiot I am! “You have a girlfriend.”
“Carolina,” he admits with relief. “She’s away at graduate school in Ontario. It’s been long distance for a while but … yes, I do. I meant to—”
“You meant to what? Let me down easy?” The liquor is making it really easy to express myself.
“No. I meant to tell you that it wasn’t a date. That we were just going out as … friends. But I thought that would sound too condescending and then I just didn’t know how to tell you.” His shoulders slump as he looks away.
“You seem pretty confident that I’m interested,” I say indignantly.
“No, I wasn’t at all … not until — you kissed me.” He looks down at his feet, embarrassed.
“I kissed you? I kissed you? Hey … I didn’t do that alone.” A few people stare at us half-heartedly as they walk by: a lovers’ quarrel.
“I know. I’m—”
“Why did you even ask me out then?” We are standing in the middle of a crosswalk; he tugs me onto the sidewalk and we narrowly avoid a fast-moving convertible.
“You just … you seemed lonely. And I thought you could use a friend.” He shrugs, hands hidden in his pockets.
“You felt sorry for me.” My stomach sinks in disappointment. I suddenly feel nauseous, free falling without a bungee cord. I turn to walk away. He grabs my arm.
“No — I mean — I am really putting my foot in it.” He rubs his temple as though searching for inspiration. “I enjoy your company.”
“Good to know. I would hate to be like a trip to the dentist. Hmm … what’s more appealing, a root canal or dinner with Maggie?” I have had a little training in sarcasm thanks to Archibald.
“Maggie, we’ve both been drinking. Let’s just call it a night, okay? I’ll call a cab.”
“No, I’d prefer to be on my own.” My voice is iceberg cold. “I don’t need any new friends. I was really just looking for a good lay,” I say, pleased with myself, watching the surprise wipe the calm off his face. Letting it sting. “But I will be happy to look elsewhere. Good night.” I saunter off blindly, humiliated.
Two buses later, I am back in West Van, somewhat more sober. Feeling sorry for myself, I wander the main strip, a neat street overwhelmed with hanging baskets that cascade cheerfully from streetlights, perfuming the night. I decide to end my disastrous evening with an ice cream. I take my cone, a double scoop of strawberry and mint chocolate chip, and make my way to a nearby park. It is deserted. My feet move silently as I wander across the expansive plain of newly manicured grass, head towards a playground. I drop onto a swing and begin to relax as I rock back and forth. The cool sweetness of the strawberry revives me, but it doesn’t quite block the memory of his taste in my mouth. He is somewhere between apples, garlic, and ginger, a sweetly sour concoction. I tilt my head back. The sky is clear and speckled with stars. A breeze tickles my legs, giving me goose bumps. My arms are bare, and I remember that I left my sweater somewhere back in the chaos of the evening, probably in the nightclub, hanging over the back of a chair.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The voice comes out of nowhere.
“Christ!” I scream and spring to standing. My cone dives down my front and lands with a soft pluff somewhere in the grass nearby.
The voice belongs to a police officer I can now see in the darkness. His flashlight illuminates the mushy mess of cone in the grass. “Sorry about that, Miss, didn’t mean to scare you.” He is youngish, thick-necked with an uneven complexion, like a guy whose main pastimes are pumping iron at the gym and eating his mom’s home-cooked pancakes with plenty of maple syrup. “It’s late.”
“I know it’s late, but I’m perfectly fine, officer.”
“That’s not what I meant. You can’t be here. This park is closed after 10 p.m.” His voice is polite, even slightly apologetic.
“Closed? How can a park close?” I am incredulous. This is West Vancouver, land of the well-to-do. “I thought they liked parks here.”
The officer shifts slightly and hooks a thumb inside his belt. “It’s to keep the teens out. We have a serious problem with vandalism.”
“Well, I’m not a teenager, and I wasn’t vandalizing anything.” I look down at the moist pink and green smudges all down the front of my dress. I recall a bad alien in a blender joke that begins with “What is pink and green?”
“Sorry about that. But rules are rules. You are officially trespassing. I’m gonna have to ask you to move along,” he says, as though reading out loud from a handbook.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll leave.” I sigh. The night really is a wash. I sink with disappointment. He bends down to pick up the cone and deposits it in a nearby trash can. He pulls a wad of napkins out of his pocket, and I wonder if he is going to bend over and wipe the stains off the grass, but he wipes his hands instead.
“It’s late to be out alone. I’ll give you a ride home,” he offers. Well, at least he is being decent about it all. I am suddenly sapped of energy.
“Watch your head,” he says, opening the back door of the shiny black and white cruiser.
“I have to sit in the back?” I complain. After all, it’s not like I’m being arrested.
“It’s the rules, Miss.” I sigh. More rules. He should really come up with a new line. I duck into the back, where I avoid banging my head but immediately scrape my knee hard against the metal backing of the seat. I stifle a moan. Luckily the booze kicks in and dulls the throbbing pain.
“Can you at least flash the lights?” I ask hopefully. But Mr. Rules Are Rules isn’t buying.
He pulls up to the apartment building and opens the door. “Thanks, Officer Johnston,” I say, hobbling slightly as I step through the door, my knee sore and bloody. I half-hope that Sam is somewhere watching all of this, overwhelmed by guilt and spurned lust. Officer Johnston extends a hand to help, and he looks like he might follow me into the building. “I can make it on my own.”
“Take care of that knee, Miss,” he says.
“My name is Maggie,” I say archly.
In the lobby, I sit in one of the plush red lounge chairs, inspecting the gore of my leg with a kind of morbid fascination. It looks like I have cherries jubilee spilled all over my knee. I am distracted by Zoltan, a small Hungarian man who is a regular at Archibald’s gatherings, exiting the elevator. I freeze in discomfort. But he merely nods at me in greeting as though nothing is out of the ordinary and continues on.
“Going up?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
I have been so absorbed by my injury, I haven’t noticed him standing in the elevator. But he has noticed me. I glance up in his direction, ready for another Officer Johnston, a busybody who will no doubt tell me I shouldn’t be bleeding all over the lobby.
But he’s a different breed altogether. And the sight of him makes me catch my breath. He is well put together, dressed in an expensive green silk shirt, the kind that moves in the slightest breeze, and black pants. His dark hair is slicked back, and his eyes are deep blue, heavy-lidded, like a contented cat’s. They hover between self-assurance and bemusement. He is the kind of person for whom the world offers a vast degree of satisfaction. He is maybe in his late thirties, although it’s hard to tell from his lightly tanned face. He looks me over, coolly.
It has been such a crappy night that I’m not even embarrassed to be inspected so closely. I’m an unabashed disaster. I lurch to my feet. “Sure, why not?” I say and stumble over to him.
He presses a button and the elevator doors close with a whispery finality. I suddenly feel trapped and back into the corner. He sorts through a stack of mail, gold wristwatch glinting. I catch sight of my dishevelled state in the mirror and recoil in horror. My dress is covered in ice cream and my leg oozes. It’s way worse than I expected. I look like I have been the casualty of projectile puking. He selects the top floor, the penthouse. So this is Michael Bancroft, the other resident writer, the guy who lives above Archibald, well-known for his bestselling thrillers. I know of him because Archibald criticizes him frequently, I assume because he is jealous of anyone more successful than him. I read one of his books a handful of years ago, during a long, boring summer vacation. Great, I think, my brush with local fame and I look like the survivor in a slasher flick. I push 14, one below his floor.
“Rough night?” he asks with a hint of a smile.
“Long night.” I grin weakly.
“Really? It’s just after one. The night’s still young. I’m a night owl, though.” He has a compelling face, I think. I’m still teetering on the edge of drunkenness and glad for it. I wonder idly what he does for fun.
“Me, too. Well, usually.” I look away. Had I been staring? Has he been staring at my smeared dress?
“I’m Michael. I’ve been out of town. I don’t remember you, and I’m good with faces.”
“I’m Maggie. I live with Archibald,” I say, shifting awkwardly.
“Really. Any relation?” he asks.
“No, no … I work for him.” And regret it on a daily basis, I think.
“He’s a character,” he says knowingly.
“Yeah. Tell me about it.” His attention unnerves me. I feel like the frayed hem of my skirt, ready to unravel. It’s just polite conversation, I tell myself. Elevator chit-chat. Calm down, girlfriend.
He frowns suddenly, searching his pockets. “Damn. I think I left my keys down by the mailbox. I’ll have to go back … I’ll just get out here and catch the next one down.” He stops the elevator, and it comes to an abrupt halt on the 11th floor. He smiles smoothly as the doors swing open. “Night, Maggie. See you soon.”
“Night … Michael,” I say, looking after him. The doors pull shut and I am quite alone. That’s when I notice the letter lying on the floor of the elevator.
Michael, In Between
I close the door quietly, relieved to find that Archibald is not around to witness my bedraggled appearance. He has gone to a wine and cheese party, where he is most likely indulging in way too much of both. I put Michael’s letter down on my side table and stumble to the bathroom to inspect the damage. My mascara has run and pooled under my eyes, and my dress is completely ruined. It looks like I collided with a condiment stand at a baseball game. I stink of wine, sweat, and garlic. And still … I’m agitated. He’d said “see you soon” so confidently, as though he had known exactly when “soon” would be. He was probably used to being admired and had most likely assumed I was another fan. What nerve, I think. I’m no horny schoolgirl in love with a picture on a book jacket.
I take a shower and towel dry. In the process, my knee begins to bleed again. I search through the medicine cabinet. Archibald probably has some Band-Aids in his bathroom, but I can’t be bothered. I pull on shorts and a white T-shirt I like to sleep in on hot nights and flop on the bed. The letter catches my eye. The envelope is creamy and thick. It looks important. I turn it over and read the return address: Kingshead Publishing. Isn’t that Archibald’s publishing company?
I’m tired, but I stare at the ceiling with my eyes wide open, the night looping backwards and forwards in my mind. I could just go up and sit the letter on his doorstep — it’s not like he’s expecting me. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him tomorrow. Sleep isn’t a possibility anyway. My mind is on Sam and dinner and the kiss and everything in-between. My head begins to throb with anger. He’d taken me to dinner out of pity! He had probably been put up to it. I could just dart upstairs. It would give me something to do. And, hopefully, it would take my mind off the memory of his mouth on mine on the dance floor.
I step into the elevator. For some reason, in my altered state, I have forgotten to put on shoes. The carpet under my feet is soft and plush. The elevator hums as it lifts off and stops with a soft bing. The doors part in a silent, wide-mouthed yawn. I step out and am immediately in a tiny hallway dominated by double mahogany doors. The floor is one entire apartment. I take a step towards them. One door rests open, slightly ajar. I hesitate and bend quietly to put the letter on the doormat.
“Hope that’s not a love letter.” His voice is soft, playful. I freeze in mid-crouch and look up. He is standing in the doorway. Has he been waiting?
“No, it’s yours. You dropped it … in the elevator.” I straighten up and hand it to him.
“Thanks.” He takes the letter and cursorily glances down at my bare feet. I run my hands through my wet hair self-consciously. His eyes fix on my injured knee.
“You’re bleeding,” he observes. I look down at the offending knee, hoping it isn’t dripping on the carpet. Blood is trickling down my shin.
“Come in. I have something for that.” His voice is matter-of-fact. He pushes the door open and disappears inside. I hesitate and then follow.
He walks through a narrow hallway that leads to a large, open room without looking back, certain that I am following. “Take a seat. I’ll just be a minute.” He leaves me.
I glance around. The apartment is a split-level loft, modern and airy. It’s masculine and sparsely, but tastefully, decorated. Large windows provide a heady view of the illuminated city across the water. I sit on the edge of a dark burgundy leather sofa. Soft jazz piano plays in the background. There is a bottle of wine open on a smooth marble coffee table. Was he entertaining? Or am I the entertainment? My eyes search out the front door. I could just beeline it out of here, I think, but my legs are heavy and unwilling, as if they have a mind of their own.
Just then, he returns, carrying a small first aid kit. He kneels down in front of me in a businesslike manner. “Let’s take a look.”
I stare at the top of his wavy, dark hair. “You really don’t have to bother.” I shift in my seat like a small kid in the nurse’s office, eager to escape but at the same time glad to be out of class.
“It’s no bother.” He smiles, and his voice is velvet with rough edges. “Besides, you were doing me a favour by returning the letter so quickly. What’s the expression? No good deed…”
“…goes unpunished.” I am a windup doll, complete with a forced smile.
“It’s pretty deep for a scrape,” he says. “You may have to go to the hospital.”
“Really?” I ask, disturbed.
“No, of course not. I’m kidding.”
“Oh,” I exhale and smile wanly.
He takes out a cotton swab, moistens it with antiseptic, and begins to rub it on the gouged flesh below my kneecap. I wince as my wound throbs beneath the cool tonic.
“Sorry.” His hand is on my shinbone, but the music has relaxed me. I sink back into the soft leather of the couch, tired and subdued from the booze. What’s weirder, I wonder, being in a stranger’s apartment getting first aid, or having a stranger in your apartment and giving her first aid?
“How did this happen?” His presence is soothing, an ointment to the blistering evening. Was he hypnotizing me?
“In the back of a police cruiser…”
He pauses briefly, looking up, eyebrow raised, before continuing.
“It’s a long story.”
“Let me guess. A lovers’ quarrel?”
“No. Actually, in a way … I guess it was. Nothing serious, though. I was just getting a ride home.”
“And I thought town cars were the way to go.” His hand still rests lightly on my calf. I notice it is smooth and tanned, like the rest of him. He withdraws it and pours a glass of wine. “Join me?”
“I should really get going. It’s late and…” I can’t think of anything else to say. My mind feels like a vacuum, packed with swirling dust.
“I just got off a plane and can never sleep when I’m jet-lagged. You’d be doing me a favour.” He holds out a glass filled with a ruddy, amethyst-coloured liquid. I twist my hair idly for a second and then stop, irritated, as I recall Sam’s earlier observation.
“Just one, then.” What could it hurt? I wasn’t staying. The wine tasted like cherries with a hint of smoke. Sweet but earthy, much better than the acrid brew at the restaurant. He stares at my nightshirt, and I wonder if he can see my skin, still pink from showering, through the thin cotton. I squirm under his gaze. “I showered and then I was planning to go to bed. I mean—” I stumble, just barely stopping myself from finishing with not with you.
