My Dad gives me Jaime’s number a little too willingly, and not for the first time I suspect him of interfering in my love life. I let him off because I know I should have accepted his interference out in Las Vegas, when he came to my hotel room with a pile of leaflets – Ten Signs That You May Be In An Abusive Relationship. I tore them all into confetti and threw them on the floor.
We set the date for Saturday night. I get up early and tidy the apartment, so that he doesn’t think I’m a lazy rich brat. I cut up chicken and worry that my meringues won’t rise, although they do. Since I started cooking for pleasure I’ve got pretty handy at it. I’ve turned my roof terrace into a little herb garden, so that there’s always fresh basil and mint. I’m thinking of getting a dog – something small and cuddly, like a poodle or a pom. Life is starting to come together at last.
Jaime shows up five minutes late, this time with a pot of white chrysanthemums. “I figured you already had a vase,” he says. He kisses my cheek and I’m grateful for the gift in his hands in more than one way – if his hands weren’t full I’d probably throw myself at him all over again. And I mustn’t. We agreed on dinner and a movie, and it’s way overdue.
“Right there,” I say, gesturing to the vase he bought me. It stands on the sideboard in front of the Art Deco mirror.
“Wow. You weren’t kidding when you said this place looks a little different.”
“I know. I have furniture now.”
“I love this mirror. Really fits with the rest of the apartment.”
“Thanks. It was here when I moved in. If it's the real deal then I'm amazed it's survived this long.”
There’s a weird little gap in the conversation and I wonder if it’s because he’s still adjusting to the idea of me as a person who goes to stores and cooks meals and does normal things. After all, back when we knew one another I didn’t do much but cry, fuck, wave guns at people and suck at dancing.
He looks good. Really good. He’s wearing a white shirt and chinos and he has to know how pale colors look on him – how they bring out the rich tints of his skin and hair. He’s definitely bulked up, but then so have I. My old clothes don’t fit me any more and I have an actual cleavage for the first time in my life. I wonder what he’d think of my body now.
“Something to drink?” I ask, quickly steering my mind away from the past.
“Sure. Thank you. Everything smells wonderful, by the way.”
“Marsala chicken.”
“Italian?” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I’m not Italian, but I figured if I wanted to cook you the traditional food of my homeland you’re left with either British food or Irish.”
He laughs. “It wasn’t that bad over there. Not as bad as people make out. And their Indian food is amazing.”
I pour us a couple of glasses of Chablis and lead the way to the couch. “You want to pick us a movie?” I ask, turning on the TV.
“From Netflix? This could take a while. What’s in your queue?”
I’ve been on a classic movie kick lately – All About Eve, Sunset Boulevard, To Kill A Mockingbird. Every other thing in my recommendations is either black and white or at least fifty years old.
“You like Marilyn Monroe?” asks Jaime.
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“Okay. How about Some Like It Hot?”
“Isn’t that a bit heavy on the talking for you?” I tease. “Not enough explosions.”
“Nah. It’s a comedy, right?”
“One of her very best. Allegedly she drove Billy Wilder nuts because she kept screwing up the takes on purpose – she was determined to be as funny as humanly possible.”
“You should talk to my brother,” he says. “He loves all that Hollywood history stuff.”
“I’d like that.”
“So would I.”
And just like that I’m fixed to meet his family. I can do this. I can do normal. Now all I have to do is not screw it up.
Dinner goes off without a hitch. I drink maybe more than I should and he has me in stitches with indiscreet stories about the antics of various rock n’ roll roadcrews. We don’t talk about Justin, Big Sur or abortions, which reminds me of one of the reasons why I liked him in the first place – he made me feel like things could be okay again. And now maybe they are.
Afterwards we curl up on the couch in the flickering glow of one of this town’s loveliest ghosts – all lips and lashes and tangled platinum curls as she croons her way through ‘I Want To Be Loved By You’. I wonder if this is how kids used to feel back in the old days, when they went to movie theaters in the hope of curling up in the dark with the one they loved. The old maneuvers you see on TV shows – the exaggerated yawn, the stretch that handily deposits an arm over the back of the girl’s shoulders.