IF [Part 1 of 2]

 IF 

by Richard Banks 

        If I had turned left into Regent Street, like I intended, instead of continuing down Oxford Street we would never have met; call it fate, call it an absent minded moment, call it what you will, it should never have happened, but somehow it did. At the time I couldn’t have been more pleased. Well, let’s face it he’s quite a hunk and having just become unengaged I was definitely in need of someone to boost my self-esteem. Not that I was looking for anything serious, well not this soon, but I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me, and being out and about with someone else was the best way to avoid that. Anyway, as I say, he was quite a hunk and in the looks department a definite upgrade on the departed Ronnie. Perhaps, I thought, the rumour would get around that I had dumped Ronnie so I could be with him. I wouldn’t say this of course but on the other hand I wouldn’t deny it. 

         The reality was that Ronnie had dumped me but no one knew this for sure except, I guess, his own friends and his friends were not to be found among mine. I was safe to construct my own version of events and with Brad on my arm and the widest of grins on my face, no one was going to mistake me for a jilted lover. Of course, I was not unhopeful that Brad might prove to be the real thing, whatever that is. He was good looking, in a Ryan Gosling sort of way, charming and wearing all the right labels. He was also American and had come to London to set-up a new office for a company called AMB. What AMB did I never really found out but it must have been a thriving business for they were paying Brad more dosh than he knew what to do with. So, why shouldn’t he be spending some of it on me? No reason at all, I thought, and if he’s single, like he says he is, who knows where this might end up. 

         But if is a big word. One ‘if’ had brought us together and the next might well see us apart. Was there a band of skin on his ring finger that was slightly less tanned than the rest of his hand? It was a fine judgement that was soon rendered impossible by the additional colouring of a warm summer sun. If he had a ring he certainly wasn’t slipping it on and off to suit the company he was in, and when he said that his father would soon be visiting and looked forward to meeting me I was,  needless to say, reassured. Indeed, I rather hated myself for doubting him. Why shouldn’t Brad be for real? Of course, he was attracted to me, and for all the right reasons, or at least all the usual ones. 

         Well, why shouldn’t a man appreciate an attractive woman? I like to be looked at, and admired. I take a lot of trouble over my appearance, I dress well, make the most of what I have, and on a balmy July day the sight of me in a summer dress, high heels and expensive shades will always be worth a second, lingering glance. Of course, I don’t rely entirely on my looks, I don’t have to, I’ve been to college, got the equivalent of a degree. If a man wants clever conversation, then no problem. I’m a chameleon, and for the right sort of man, I can be anything I need to be which makes me wonder why things ended so badly with Ronnie. What was it I did wrong? He never said.        

       Anyway, why am I still thinking of him? Brad’s my man now and judging by our first few weeks together I’m doing everything just fine. And if he’s thinking the same thing about himself he couldn’t be more right. We’re a team, the dream team and there’s not a west-end club or restaurant that don’t recognise us and treat us like A-listers. Well, why not, and if no one knows what it is we actually do that only adds to our appeal.        

But, what do we know about each other? “It’s important, to be honest,” Brad says, so he starts to unravel his past and how he works for this American company that’s also big in Europe and Iceland. Why Iceland, I’m thinking? Did I hear that bit right, probably I didn’t. What I was really listening out for was the nitty gritty of his personal life. Heaven forbid he has a skeleton in the cupboard that’s going to throw a spanner in the works - if that what skeletons do - but the worse he can come up with is that he was once engaged to a girl who broke it off because he voted Democrat.

         “But that’s wonderful,” I say.

         “Are you sure?” he replies, looking less than convinced.

         “Of course it is,” I assure him, “it’s yet another thing we have in common,” and I tell him about Ronnie and his sad lack of commitment.

         “What a jerk,” he says, and for the next half hour we talk about nothing else but Ronnie, how we met, what he did, what we talked about and, was I possibly still in touch with him. At first this is cute, he’s showing concern, empathy, I think, but after a while it’s sounding like he’s more into Ronnie than me. When the answers to his questions become shorter and occasionally a little tetchy he takes the hint and switches the conversation to his former beau who, he says, wasn’t a patch on me.

         “Wasn’t?” I say, “what about now?” 

         He says he doesn’t know about now having not seen her in over a year, but he doesn’t suppose she’s changed much in that time. “Anyway,” he says, “I don’t care no more about her. Why should I? When you have prime steak in the grill why go out for a burger.”

         While the analogy is less than flattering the mention of food at least reminds him that we haven’t eaten since lunch. If he wants me to stay over until Monday he will have to feed me, and it won’t be at MacDonald's.

         We go to Santini’s. They are fully booked but after a short negotiation involving a £20 note the waiter changes his mind and we are seated in an alcove that’s just big enough to take the two of us. The lights are low and it looks as though everything’s set for a romantic evening. Perhaps he’s going to propose, I think. After only a few weeks together that hardly seems likely but who knows. Best to be prepared, I think, so what will I say? “Yes!” of course. If he was filthy rich and old enough to be my father I would still be saying yes but Brad’s not, I mean old enough to be my father. He’s young, gorgeous and loaded in more ways than one. Of course, I’m going to say yes. But then, what do I say and do next? Should I throw myself across the table and into his arms – probably not a good idea if the food’s been served – or be lost for words and shedding tears of joy, like I once saw Greta Garbo do in that old WWII movie. 

         Fortunately, while all this is going through my head Brad is ordering the wine, the one I like, which he says is, “so so.” Yes, this is it, I’m thinking. He’s looking serious and more than a little nervous. There’s definitely something he wants to get off his chest.

“About Ronnie,” he says.

What! I’m thinking, but manage not to say.

         “I’m sorry to keep on about him but I think we should be totally honest with each other. After all, I told you everything about me and Lana. It don’t seem fair if I know less than you.”

         “OK,” I say, “what do you want to know, but make it quick. I don’t want to be talking about this in ten minutes time.”

         He winces as though this is not going to be anywhere near enough.

         “Cut to the chase,” I say.       

     So he does. He’s heard that our break-up had something to do with the job I do. “Is that so?” he asks. Before I answer he wants me to know that whatever I say is between the two of us, no one else. “Lovers should have no secrets, whatever they might be.”        

    This is definitely not the way it should be. Secrets should be exactly that. But what the heck is this all about? Why is he connecting Ronnie to my job. There is no connection. Ronnie knew nothing about it, apart from what I told him which is what I tell everyone. I’m a clerk in the Civil Service I say. “Oh,” they reply, “how interesting” which is not what they’re thinking and the conversation moves on to other things in double quick time. I explain this to Brad who asks which department I work for. Something tells me that he already knows this which poses the question ‘how,’ swiftly followed by, why does he want to know? This is creeping me out. I thought I knew this man but maybe I don’t. Time to put the ball back into his court, so I have a strop like the one I had before. 

         “Ronnie’s yesterday’s news,” I tell him, “he’s history and I don’t want to hear his name mentioned again, he has nothing to do with my work, never had. Now let it go or I’ll have to let you go.”

         The last few words slip out before I know I’ve said them. I’ve gone too far, that’s not what I want. I wait nervously for his response.

[To be continued.]

 

Copyright Richard Banks