New York City, USA
December 2010
Between the moon and New York City
Mrs Weisz waits for me when I enter the hall, standing in the doorway to her flat and watching me with an obvious twinkle in her eyes.
"Your gentleman caller is already upstairs," she informs me, clearly pleased.
I shake my head, though unable to fight a smile. "He's a friend, Mrs Weisz," I correct. "No 'gentleman caller'. And really, I don't think anyone is a 'gentleman caller' nowadays. The breed became extinct about fifty years ago."
Mrs Weisz doesn't appear convinced. "Call it whatever you like, Marilla, but there's no changing the facts," she lets me know, lightly clucking her tongue at my apparent inability to understand her point.
(Though in truth, I understand her very well. She's wrong, is all.)
"Whatever we want to call him, I probably shouldn't leave him waiting any longer," I point out with a smile, inclining my head slightly.
Her penchant for manners getting the better of her, Mrs Weisz nods approval. "No. Though you shouldn't have left him waiting in the first place," she remarks pointedly.
"Not my fault!" I quickly defend myself. "And besides, I know you would never leave him standing out in the cold, Mrs Weisz."
"Indeed, I would not," she agrees. "He is a very polite young man, after all. Very good manners. Except for how he never removes that scarf from his face. Is something the matter with his face?"
She does her best not to appear too curious and I do my best to suppress a laugh. "His face is perfectly fine," I assure (and it is – in more ways than one). "I think he's just cold. They don't get winters like these in Europe."
"Western Europe," amends Mrs Weisz with a sniff. "Winters in Hungary are not at all warmer than here."
"No, I guess they aren't," I agree amiably, because as far as the Hungarian climate is concerned, she's clearly the expert.
Reaching down to pick up a bag sitting by my feet, I hand it over to her. "I have five novels here. Is that enough to tide you over until after Christmas?" I ask.
Mrs Weisz nods. "Yes, yes. Very good." She is already peering inside the bag to see what I've brought her.
"I'll drop by tomorrow and bring you some of George's cat food," I add. (For George knows that whenever I'm gone, he can instead turn to Mrs Weisz for care.) "If you get me a list ready until then, I can go and fetch you some groceries before I leave for home."
Looking up from her bag, Mrs Weisz considers me, her face having softened in a way it doesn't often happen with her. "You lovely girl. What would I do without you?" she asks with a little sigh.
"It's nothing," I assure quickly. "And besides, you're looking after George while I'm gone, which is much more trouble than doing a bit of shopping."
"No trouble at all," she disagrees with a shake of her head. "And now, off you go. Your gentleman caller is waiting." Her eyes are twinkling as she says it and I can't help but laugh.
"Best go up before he disappears, right?" I query.
Instead of answering, Mrs Weisz just shoos me off with her free hand, her expression one of amusement. When, halfway up the stairs, I look back over my shoulder, I can see her turn back to her flat, nose already poked into the bag I've given her, and am glad that I have two brand-new books waiting upstairs, to be given as her Christmas present. Otherwise, I don't think she'd have enough reading material to last until my return.
Climbing the stairs quickly (but not so quickly as to leave me completely breathless), I reflect on Mrs Weisz's use of the term 'gentleman caller'. Ever since he established us as friends almost a month ago, Ken and I have made good headway at becoming exactly that. Which is still weird if I think about it consciously but doesn't feel weird at all anymore. Instead it's… almost natural.
We only ever meet at my place, with him dropping by about two or three times a week. And it's not even that we're doing much – mostly, we just chat or watch the occasional movie on my laptop. Recently, he's also taken to turning up bearing food, either take-outs (which I'm reasonably certain he made his PPOs get him, but which I've never asked about, because the thought makes me feel uncomfortable and I'd rather not have it confirmed) or else an assortment of groceries (also, no doubt, not procured by him in person), which we then try to whip into an edible meal between the two of us, at which he, surprisingly, is proving to be rather more of a dab hand than me.
In short, it's all perfectly nice and very lovely indeed. He's funny, he's clever, and since I've gotten better at steering clear of difficult subjects, he's also allowed himself to relax a lot. It's a perfectly nice, perfectly lovely friendship and I'd lie if I said I'm not looking forward to seeing him. In fact, I've had to slightly curtail other aspects of my life to make room for him, leading to Nia recently complaining loudly and publicly on my Facebook page about how she never sees me anymore, which Chelsea then emphatically agreed to. Of course, that isn't true at all (I totally see Chelsea in class and regularly meet Nia for lunch in the cafeteria), but that's my friends for you. And besides, the day is only so long, right?
When I reach my landing, I can see Ken leaning against the wall next to my door. He has pulled the scarf free from his face and smiles at me in greeting. "Hello there."
"I'm so sorry for being late," I apologise. "Did you have to wait for very long?"
"Not too long," he assures, sliding his phone into his pocket and pushing off the wall.
Moving to unlock the door, I explain, "I didn't mean to leave you waiting, but Tracy called in sick today and Carolina and I had to split her tables between us, which always makes things a tad stressful."
"Couldn't you have called in someone else instead?" he asks, his voice is curious rather than critical, as he follows me inside, our snow-wet shoes left to dry in the hall.
I shrug off my coat, then kick the door shut with my be-socked foot. "We might have, but then Tracy wouldn't have gotten any tips for the night."
Ken raises a questioning eyebrow. "But if she didn't do any work, she isn't due any tips either, is she?" He reaches for my coat and hangs up both mine and his.
"Maybe not," I reply reluctantly. "But we know all that when Tracy calls in sick, it's because her bastard of a husband has beat her up again. The last thing she needs is to worry about money on top of that. Money is how he keeps her tethered to him. She's trying to save enough to leave, but it's slow going." I glower darkly into the room, hands balled into fists at the thought of Tracy's husband.
"It's often like that," Ken points out carefully. "That apart from everything else, women simply lack the financial means to leave."
I turn to look at him, making a conscious effort to smooth out my expression beforehand. "How do you know that?"
He shrugs. "You tend to pick up some information when sent to visit all those charities. Besides, Aunt Mary made women's rights quite her pet subject. She works with several charities that aim to help women out of abusive relationships."
"I hate how we have to have charities for that," I sigh. "But I suppose it is necessary. Carolina and me splitting our tips with Tracy is helping a little bit, but it's not nearly enough."
"It's a start," Ken replies comfortingly. Then, as he considers me, his expression suddenly turns thoughtful. "Say… if I asked you for a glass of water, would that qualify me as a… a patron or diner or whatever we want to call it?"
Blinking in confusion, I need a moment to understand where he's going with this. When I do, however, I nod slowly. "I should think so. Though we don't charge for tap water."
"But I could still tip you for bringing it to me?" he clarifies.
"There's no-one stopping you," I point out, now fighting a smile.
"In that case, I'd very much like a glass of water," he replies and while his voice remains earnest enough, the corners of his mouth are also threatening to rise upwards.
"Coming up in a second, good sir," I promise in my best waitress's voice and turn to fill up a glass of water for him. When I hand it to him, he is just pocketing his wallet again, and on the kitchen counter lies a neat stack of notes that wasn't there before – at least fifty dollars, by my estimation.
"We never get tips that high," I tell him, though with much regret. "Tracy's not going to buy it. And she's far too proud to accept charity."
Ken just shrugs. "Tell her it was a weird Englishman who had his exchange rates confused. I mean, it totally is ten dollars to a pound, isn't it?"
He is grinning now, evidently quite pleased at his little ploy, and I can't help but relent. He's clearly eager to help and Tracy does need the money, after all.
"Sounds about right," I agree, smiling myself now. Then, quieter, "Thank you."
"Not at all," he replies, suddenly serious, and reaches out to give my hand a squeeze.
He holds the touch for a second or two, before I pull my hand back. "Right. Anyway. Having settled that, would you mind if I leave you to it for a second? This dress is cute to look at, but there's limited room to breathe." It's new and when trying it on in the shop, I might have overestimated the give.
"Go ahead," he nods. "Want me to feed the cat in the meantime?" He nods towards the window through which George, with impeccable timing, is just entering.
"That would be great." I throw him a quick smile in thanks, then collect some clothes from one of the chairs and turn toward the bathroom, closing the window as I pass.
Behind me, I can hear Ken addressing the cat, "Now, what would His Majesty like for dinner?" He opens one of the kitchen cupboards and George is past me in a flash, sparing me not even a look.
Traitor.
After having exchanged the dress for a pair of well-worn jeans and a cosy sweater, my hair released from a bun that was beginning to pull at my scalp anyway, I leave the bathroom to find George happily munching away at his food and Ken standing next to the lone table I have, looking down at something in his hand.
When he hears me, he raises both his head and his hand, revealing that he is holding my iPod. "I was looking at your music," he explains unnecessarily.
"Sure, suit yourself. Mi casa es su casa and all that," I deadpan.
He laughs. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Then, with another look down at the iPod, "You have surprisingly good taste in music."
I raise a challenging eyebrow. "For a girl, you mean?"
"Ah, no," he is quick to deny. "For someone of our generation." A flick of his thumb and a second later, the small loudspeaker connected to the iPod plays the distinct opening of The Who's My Generation.
Touché.
Laughing despite myself, I take the iPod from him, set it on shuffle and place it back on the table. "Mighty pleased that my musical preferences meet with your approval, kind sir," I remark, trying out my very poshest accent, as I walk over to plop down on to the bed.
"They certainly do," he agrees with a laugh. Pausing to let George back out of the window – who is, no doubt, in search of more exciting adventures – he follows me, stopping short just in front of the bed. "What happened to the quilt?"
"In the wash," I shrug. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all," he assures, sitting down beside me. Then, eyeing me curiously, "Now, do tell – at whose knee did you acquire your taste in music?"
"My dad's, actually," I answer, folding both legs beneath my body to sit more comfortably. "He's a neurosurgeon by day, but deep down, he fancies himself to be a rock star or something. A thwarted one, at the very least. When he was younger, he even played the guitar in a band and everything. Not that they were at all successful, but… well, you know."
Ken nods. "That would be the Woodstock generation, wouldn't it?"
"Smack dab," I confirm. "He was eighteen in 1968 and boy, does he get nostalgic when talking about it. Not that he was at Woodstock personally, but you know… he lived the spirit. Long hair and all. Looked rather ridiculous, if the pictures are anything to go by."
"Your father was a hippie?" Ken asks, evidently highly amused by the thought.
"To a point. I don't think he was much into this whole spiritualty thing though. That was always mum. In her teenage years, she was basically the original flower child. Come to think of it, I think she stuck to the aesthetic long past the point where it stopped being fashionable," I muse.
Across the room, the iPod begins playing the Stone's Wild Horses and Ken makes an appreciative sound. "Ah, Sticky Fingers was one of their best."
"So says Dad," I agree. "Alongside Exile on Main Street."
"Your dad wasn't bound to the typical hippie folk sound then, I take it?" he asks, raising both eyebrows.
"Oh, no. Dad always followed the music," I answer with a shrug. "Folk, rock, even shades of punk. He's listened to it all and has the LPs to show for it. They might be the most visual reminder of his and mum's past, actually. I mean, you wouldn't think it from looking at them now, but they did meet at an Anti-Vietnam war rally in 1969."
Ken's mouth twists into a smile that can only be described as wry, as if he's thinking about his own private joke and not sure whether it's actually something to laugh about.
"Tell!" I demand, extending a hand to poke him into the side. (Because let's face it, I was always going to tire of treading eggshells around him.)
He shakes his head slightly. "My father saw action in the Falklands and my mother was just eighteen when she was married off for money to a man whose family had gotten rich by arms deals, amongst other things."
Right.
And just like that, I'm back to balancing on eggshells. Though I supposed I did ask for it, didn't I?
"How come they let your father fight in an actual war anyway? I mean, he was the heir, wasn't he?" Because of all the roads he opened up with that remark, this seems to be the least slippery one.
"It was just the Falklands. I mean, war is war, but this wasn't even close to, say, Vietnam in scale. I think they just decided to take their chances," Ken answers evenly. "And besides, they had a spare, so it wasn't all that risky."
"A spare?" I repeat, puzzled.
"Uncle Al. If my father had died, Uncle Al would have taken his place. Though come to think of it…" he pauses for a moment. "Come to think of it, I entirely agree with you. How anyone could ever think it sensible to risk Uncle Al becoming king is utterly beyond me. Aunt Mary, sure, any day, but Uncle Al… We might just have to chalk that one up to collective madness."
(One day, I will need to find out quite what is the matter with Uncle Al.)
"Why did they take that risk then?" I wonder.
He shrugs. "Truthfully, I think it was my grandmother's attempt at breaking up my parents. Send off my father to war and hope that by the time he returns, my mother will have moved on and he can be convinced to marry someone more suitable."
Over on the table, the iPod, spookily, launches into the Dire Straits and their Brothers in Arms.
"Your grandmother, the Queen," I remark slowly. (How odd that sounds.)
"My grandmother, the Queen," he confirms.
"So… she didn't approve of your parents' relationship?" I ask, choosing my words carefully.
He smiles, but once again, there's little humour behind it. "That's one way of putting it, yes."
At a loss what to say to that, I fall silent. He, too, doesn't offer up anything else, instead staring ahead into space, very softly humming the song's tune under his breath.
It is only when Dire Straits come to an end, to be replaced by the Beatles, that Ken turns back towards me, and even he can't help laughing at the song the iPod picked for us - Revolution. Apt, indeed.
"Tell me more about your dad and his music?" he suggests, lightly tapping a finger against my knee.
"It's his great passion. Mum has her writing and Dad has his music. Though while Mum always had a child sitting at her feet, joining into her literary interests, none of my elder siblings took much of an interest in Dad and his music," I explain. "Which wasn't for lack of trying on his part, believe me."
"Poor man," commiserates Ken, looking genuinely mournful on Dad's behalf.
"Perhaps," I concede. "Though for me, it provided an opening I wasn't about to let slip through my fingers. I must have been about eight when I realised that so far, no-one had taken in interest in Dad's music, so I decided I was going to do it."
Ken looks slightly puzzled. "What do you mean, you decided to be interested in it?"
"What I said," I reply, matter-of-fact. "When you have five older siblings running around the place and a preemie brother born after you, you learn early that you have to fight for attention. I mean, my parents tried their best, but seven children and two parents were never going to add up, not even when you throw Grandma Bertha into the mix. Thus, if you wanted special bonding time with a parent, it was best to find a way to initiate it."
Understanding slowly dawns on his face. "And so, you decided to like music."
I nod briskly. "Precisely that. Dad was delighted to have someone share in his interest and I was happy to have something that only the two of us shared. Happy enough to spend many an hour listening to his records with him and even allowing him to teach me the guitar. Though I wasn't the most diligent pupil around, I'll readily admit that."
"And did all those hours manage to invoke in you a real interest in music or did you just play pretend?" he asks curiously.
Making a thoughtful sound, I consider the question for a moment. Over on the table, the unmistakeable Janis Joplin has started on Piece of my Heart.
"Depends on what you consider 'a real interest in music'. I like music well enough. I know lots about it. I can tell good music from bad music. I enjoy listening to it – to the good music, that is. I happily escaped the dark years that were the '90s and their complete lapse in musical taste," I answer, wrinkling my nose slightly. "To that extent, yes, I am truly interested in it. But do I actually care whether Brian Jones was a superior guitar player to Keith Richards? I do not. Certainly not enough to discuss it in depth for an hour or two, though I have, by osmosis, acquired the necessary knowledge to hold my own in such a discussion."
"I'd pick Richards over Jones, actually. Though admittedly, Richards also had much more time to make an impression on the world. Jones died too young," Ken states earnestly. "But whichever you prefer, neither of them can hold a candle to –"
"Hendrix!" I interrupt, laughing. "God, you're predictable!"
He looks slightly put out. "That Jimi Hendrix was the best guitar player among them all doesn't make me predictable. It's just a fact," he points out. "As is the fact that he, too, died to young."
"So did Jim Morrison. And Janis," I add with a nod towards the loudspeaker on the table. "The original 27 Club."
"Indeed," he nods gravely.
"And I'm not even disagreeing with you on Hendrix's skill as a guitarist. I can acknowledge that perfectly well without caring much for his overall sound. Same goes for Santana, actually," I state, raising a challenging eyebrow and suppressing a smile. I have a feeling he's going to take this just as well as Dad would – which is to say, not well at all.
He does, as expected, look suitably aghast. "Blasphemy," he mutters, evidently having been robbed of something more eloquent to say.
I can't help laugh at the sight of him, earning myself a dark glare. "You're entirely in agreement with Dad on that one," I inform him. "He, too, never understood my aversion to some of his great favourites. I also have little time for Bob Marley, which never fails to puzzle him."
"It is puzzling," Ken insists, very seriously.
This time, I only just manage to swallow my laugh. "Go on like that and Dad's going to want to adopt you."
At this, his lips rise into a smile as well. "Tempting as that sounds, I'm going to have to decline. For a variety of reasons."
"British establishment won't like you getting adopted by a random Canadian," I agree with a very understanding nod.
"Yes. That and… other reasons," he replies mysteriously.
Briefly, I consider needling him on those reasons, but then decide it would really be far too much effort. Besides, I have no particular interest in opening another can of worms when we've just managed to get a firm lid on the last one.
Overcome by a yawn, I turn my head into my shoulder for a moment to cover it. When I look back at him, he's smiling slightly. "Tired?"
"A bit," I admit, returning his smile lazily.
Janis, meanwhile, has given way to Joan Baez, and as I listen to her croon her Love Song to a Stranger, I idly reflect that the lines 'All of your history has little to do with your face; You're mainly a mystery' might as well have been written about the man sitting next to me. He's a mystery alright.
Lulled by Joan's voice, we fall into silence, but it has little resemblance to the charged, uneasy silence of earlier. Instead, there's something relaxed, almost peaceful about it. Perhaps that's why, as Joan sings 'To know that when day broke and I woke that you'd still be there', the words are halfway out of my mouth before my woozy brain has caught up with them.
"Tell me, are you the kind to stay the night?"
He turns and it is only upon seeing the surprised look on his face that I truly realise what I just asked.
Well, drat.
But thankfully, confusion merely gives way to amusement as he answers, "Contrary to popular believe, I'm not as much of a womanizer as the tabloids likes to make me out to be."
"So, you're telling me you never sneaked out of a woman's room in the early hours of dawn?" I challenge, biting back a smile.
He laughs. "I'm saying I don't make a habit of it."
"But you aren't utterly unfamiliar with the situation either?" I persist, now unable to fight my own smile.
"Let's say that, once or twice after a long night, I found myself waking up next to a woman I might not have accompanied home if stone-cold sober," he answers carefully, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
"Oh!" I exclaim. "Coyote Ugly, you mean."
He blinks. "Coyote what, now?"
"Coyote Ugly," I repeat with a laugh. "See, there was a movie by that name, oh, ten years ago or so. No Citizen Kane, but endlessly fascinating to an eleven-year-old girl such as me. From what I gather, the idea for it came from a real-life bar over in Manhattan's East Village. And the phrase, Coyote Ugly, means waking up with your arm beneath a person you find so repulsive that you'd rather gnaw the arm off than wake them."
"Compelling," he acknowledges, dead-pan.
"Fitting, too," I add innocently.
His eyes find mine and there's a sly smile spreading over his face that I don't much like the look of. "Speaking from experience, are we, Miss Blythe?"
Hiding my face in my hands, I still can't help laughing. "That was. One. Time. Alright? Just the once."
"'Course it was," he replies, clearly teasing.
When I lower my hands again, he has leaned slightly forward, his face now closer to mine, laughter etched in every line. Reaching up to brush some hair from my face, he lets the strand run through his fingers slowly.
"Would waking up next to me also make you want to gnaw your arm off, I wonder?" he asks and in an instant, the air around us feel strangely charged, crackling with something I can't name but don't really need a name for either.
Across the room, the iPod begins playing the Moody Blues' Nights in White Satin. Because of course it does.
I could laugh and change the subject. I could pretend indignation and ask him to leave. I could brush it off and tell him that he's just going to have to keep on wondering. I could make a joke out of it and say that I'd be perfectly willing to sacrifice not only an arm but a leg as well.
I could do all that.
Instead, I shift very slightly towards him, tilt my chin upwards and look him straight in the eye.
"Why don't you find out?"
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)' (written by Christopher Cross, Burt Bacharach, Carole Bayer Sager and Peter Allen, released by Christopher Cross in 1981).
