Chapter 9 – Distance

Ben swirled the whiskey in his glass, then looked sideways at me from the sofa across the room. "Thank you for seeing me."

I bit my lip, and then responded, "I suppose… that we ought to at least talk." I was perched in my overstuffed chair as far as I could be from him. Best, I thought, to keep some distance between us.

He sipped his whiskey and sighed.

"I hope you agree."

He took a bigger drink. "You're not drinking?"

I shook my head. "Drinking alcohol while taking antidepressant medication is contraindicated."

"Oh Rachel."

"It's fine. Really."

He sprang to his feet, nearly spilling his whiskey. "Fine? Damn it all!"

I waved him to sit back down on the sofa. "I was… unsettled… after…"

"What happened," he finished my statement. He stared at me for a few seconds, and then slowly sank back to his seat. "After, I…"

"We," I corrected him.

"But Rachel."

"No buts, Ben. It happened, yes? Now I have to deal with the aftermath." I kept my voice neutral and face blank as I said that, but it was a struggle.

Ben cleared his throat. "Rachel, after what happened, how can you sound so bloody clinical?"

Part of my job was to remain calm under stress. It took quite a few seconds before I could answer. "What other choice do I have Ben?"

"Good God, Rachel, we, WE." He shook his head. "We are in this together."

That got my back up a bit. "WE didn't end up in intensive care! Do you have scars from it? Do you?" Tears suddenly ran down my cheeks and I drew a shuddering breath. "I apologize… it wasn't… that is, you, we didn't know. Did we?"

He drank the rest of his drink and the silence began to build. As I watched him it was obvious he was struggling to control himself, but he was that sort of man - cool and calm, at least in most normal types of situations. But this was not your run of the mill thing; not usual at all.

He turned away from me, now gazing at the wall. But as he studied my front room wallpaper, I thought about how we met; how it was all happenstance.

Alan Permenter was an old friend of my parents, and he ran an art gallery in Soho. It was a quirky little hole in the wall sort of place, a half-sophisticated place of gleaming walls covered by beautiful artworks, and the other half filled with experimental art pieces which were either brilliantly conceived and executed, or absolute rubbish.

I was only there that evening because of the ties of family and friendship, and as well having nothing better to do that Saturday than to sit home and darn stockings. Besides, I knew that Alan always laid on great food and drink, and having neither boyfriend or other engagement I treated myself to an evening out. That's one of the problems of single living; it was a bit hard at times to treat ones' self.

So that Saturday I had dressed in a smart and short dress, my nicest shoes, big hoop earrings and a long silver necklace, and went to the event. Alan was very happy to see me, as he pressed a glass of white wine into my hand, bussed my cheek, made perfunctory introductions, and then turned to greet the next guest coming in the street door.

I was peering at something on the wall which was either a fantastic avantgarde creation, or something scraped off the bottom of a dustman's boot.

"Rather horrible, isn't it?" asked a pleasant-sounding man's voice on my left.

I turned my head, and discovered a very handsome man. He was smiling, his clear blue eyes shining. "Not bad, I suppose, if you don't mind..." I waved a hand at what looked to be a rusted and crushed tin integrated in the middle of the piece. "Whatever that is. Tomato or soup?"

"Rubbish art," he chuckled. "And it's a Spam tin. I've eaten plenty of it to know." He pointed to the next art piece. "But that one's not half bad, though. Reminds me of Minoan art. See the bull? Just here. And the woman leaping over its back?" His square fingers waved over the sketchy blue and red lines on the canvas.

What I recalled about ancient Aegean cultures you could put in a thimble. "If you say so."

He coughed. "I don't mean to lecture. Ancient cultures were one of my passions at school."

"And now?" I asked. "What pays the bills?"

"Government service." He held out his hand. "I'm Ben."

I took his hand. "Rachel."

He indicated my wine glass with a tip of his head. "Ready for another?"

"Not yet." I liked his looks and manners so I lead him to the next piece, which was nearly as awful as the first. "Like it?"

He grimaced. "No."

"Me either."

We walked from one artwork to the other, and generally agreed on what was good, what was bad, and what was iffy.

I looked around the crowded gallery. "A lot of people are here now. I don't think Alan will mind if we leave. Do you mind if we go?"

He laughed. "No. Are you hungry?"

"Famished. How does Italian sound?"

"Works for me." He took my glass from my hand and took me outside. "So, what do you do?"

"I'm a psychologist. Moaning housewives and anxious business people." I watched as he nodded thoughtfully. Sometimes my profession scared people away.

"You seem a level-headed sort. I bet you do them a world of good."

"Thank you. Yes, I think I do. It can be difficult at times."

He laughed. "Sounds like my job."

"I mentioned Italian food; that okay?"

"Just fine with me."

"Come on then. There's a nice place around the corner. Family run – grandmother's recipe – that sort of thing."

"Lead on then."

So, over a nice meal of ravioli and red wine, we exchanged stories, and I found Ben Sizemore to be a rather likeable fellow. He must have thought I was pretty decent as well, for three weeks and six dates later, we made love.