Don't Look Back (16 page)

“Nice choice,” Matthew announces, looking around. “So, what can I get you to drink?”

I settle into the red leather seat and put my purse down, enjoying a break from walking. “I’ll take a glass of Pinot Grigio, please.” I hope that maybe a glass of wine will help me relax a little.

“I’ll be right back.” Matthew disappears around the corner toward the bar.

The pub is not crowded at all; there seems to be a mixture of tourists and businessmen scattered throughout. Music plays in the background, and large television screens hang throughout the main bar area, showing Sky TV. I grab my old-fashioned flip phone from my purse. No surprise, I have no text messages from Dave. I check the time: It’s just after four o’clock, so at least Matthew and I should be able to spend a couple more hours together, if he doesn’t have any other plans. I slide the phone back into my purse and watch Matthew walk toward me holding a pint of beer in one hand and my wine glass in the other. His smile is dashing, and his sunglasses sit atop his head, pinning his hair back off his forehead. He looks like a model or a movie star—completely gorgeous.

“Can you believe the man behind the bar asked if I’m an Aussie?” He feigns insult while setting down our drinks and sliding into the seat opposite me. I laugh as he continues his rant. “You know, it wouldn’t bother me so much if the man who was insulting me was an Englishman, but he’s a young kid from Eastern Europe or someplace, with an accent so strong I can barely understand him myself,” he exclaims. “Do I sound Australian to you?”

“Yes, a little. Most of the time there’s a hint of an Australian twang, except an English word escapes you now and then.” I break the news to him honestly.

“I’ve been there a long time; I suppose it was bound to happen eventually.” He shrugs his shoulders.

I empathize, as I too have this problem with my accent.

“Do you miss this, Kate? Miss England?” he quickly clarifies.

“Sometimes.” I sip my wine, thinking of how to answer. “I miss certain things about England, but after being gone for so long, you get accustomed to a different way of life. I don’t know if I could ever fully adapt to life back here; it’s not the place where we grew up. It’s changed. I’m lucky, I suppose. I get to come back every year, and after a couple of weeks, I’m usually content to go back to my California lifestyle. Why didn’t you ever come back?”

Matthew sits back in his chair, staring at me, obviously thinking about his words.

“I never had a reason to come back,” he replies. “Eventually, I moved my mum out to Sydney to be with us, removing my final link to England. I made a clean break, and although it was rough going at first, I don’t regret it. Or, at least, I’ve never had a reason to regret it.”

“And your mum, she’s happy in Australia? She settled in all right out there?” I try to keep the conversation casual.

“Yes, she loves it. The weather is fantastic for her arthritis, and the girls have brought her immense
joy. I don’t think she’ll ever return here. We live in a small community; she has an abundance of English friends and a very comfortable life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her happier.” Matthew smiles as he speaks about his mum. I can see the deep affection he has for her, and for that I am glad. I remember her being such a hard-working single mum, working two jobs to make ends meet. It appears now she is relaxing and enjoying her senior years. I honestly cannot be happier for her.

“What about your parents? Are they still in California?” He switches the line of questioning to me, and I feel awkward as I consider how to answer.

“Yes, completely settled in California. They still live in the same house. Peter, my stepdad, is now retired, but they’re content playing golf, and they appear quite happy. Same situation with the sunshine—it’s good for the old age, and I don’t think my mother will ever live back here.” I pause, nervously fingering my wine glass. “We’re not that close. Things were never the same after I went away to college.” I hope he understands what I mean.

“You mean after they forced you to go back home and leave me without saying goodbye, and then had their friends embellish a story to get me to leave you alone forever?” Matthew bluntly spits it out. The truthfulness of his statement slaps me in the face. I guess he did understand.

“Yes, something along those lines,” I agree in a whisper.

We both sit quietly for a moment, sipping our drinks in awkward silence. I reach over and grab the menu, hoping to redirect our thoughts.

“Have you eaten?” I ask, looking at the little
chalkboard menu on the table with its simple bar food choices.

“No.” He perks up. “Actually, I’m famished. Would you care to join me for dinner? I know this fantastic place,” he teases, waving his hand around the pub.

“I would love fish and chips; I can’t possibly go home without having some authentic fish and chips!” I reply.

“Then that makes two of us. I’ll go order, be right back.” Once more he jumps up, the previous mood forgotten, and heads off to place our order at the bar.

Matthew is gone for a while, stuck at the bar behind a rush of patrons who have come in at the end of the business day. The pub is starting to fill up with fewer tourists and more locals, mostly men in business suits. Conversations are growing louder, adding a lively feel to the atmosphere.

When he returns, he has another round of drinks for us and a little wicker basket with silverware and condiments in it, with a round number nine on the top. He sets everything down on the table, but this time he sits next to me on the bench seat, his thigh sliding against mine, our jeans rubbing together. I freeze in my seat as his touch sends an electrical current through me, temporarily paralyzing me. He is behaving as though sitting like this is simply natural.

“I think I got a French person this time when I ordered,” he jokes.
“Madam, voulez-vous un verre de vin?
” Matthew says in bad French and hands me the fresh glass of pinot, smiling seductively.

“Merci beaucoup,”
I attempt in response, trying to
recall what little I can of my high school French classes.

My eyes scrutinize his, searching for a motive behind his invasion of my personal space. I am met with a flirtatious smirk as Matthew reaches past me with his right arm, deliberately leaning in toward me as he brushes his upper arm against my left breast and very carefully slides my empty wine glass to the farthest edge of the table. I am shocked that he is so brazen, and I wonder if perhaps it is accidental. I feel my nipple harden as the soft cashmere of his sweater rubs against my thin cotton shirt. Pulses radiate deep into my groin.

When he repeats the action with his empty beer glass a second later, I realize that he is aware of what he is doing. I feel my pulse quicken and my stomach tighten; the throbbing between my legs is insane. My logical mind tries to rationalize his conduct; meanwhile, something deep inside me is celebrating. Is he flirting? I casually sip my wine, trying to ground the electrical impulses in my body. To everyone else in the room, it appears he is clearing the table for our meal.

Matthew is grinning as he settles back into his seat, picking up his fresh pint of beer. He brings it to his smiling lips, causally takes a gulp, and sets it back down on the table in front of us. I am convinced he knows full well the havoc he is wreaking inside my body, and I am not sure I like this game he is playing. Each moment is one closer to us going our separate ways, most likely for the rest of our lives, so I decide there are some things I’d like to talk about while I still have the opportunity.

“So, Saturday night,” I begin. “How long did you stay?”

I’ve caught him off guard with my line of questioning; the confident grin from a moment ago slips away. “Uh, three hours, or maybe four,” he stutters. “Do you know you snore?” His change of direction throws me for a loop. Damn him!

“No, I don’t,” I reply, slightly embarrassed but taken aback imagining him sitting for three hours watching me snore.

“Yes, you do, but it’s not loud or anything. It’s gentle little sounds.” He is grinning at me again. “Honestly quite sweet, I found it delightful to watch.”

“And why were you watching me sleep for three or four hours?” I’m still trying to get over the shock that he sat watching me while I slept. That is either creepy or romantic.

“Well, to be honest, Kate, I was hoping you were going to wake up. I didn’t even realize you were asleep until I heard those funny sounds.”

I smack him on the arm.

“Ouch!” Dramatically, he fakes injury. “I was astounded that you fell asleep, especially considering the circumstances. I sat there quite angry at first. But as I watched you, my anger slowly subsided. I went back to our past and relived those moments, this time inserting the missing pieces of the puzzle that you had shared. I was able to see the picture a little clearer, and for the first time, I was able to see your side of the story, not just my own.”

He turns his body toward me, casually stretching his right arm behind me along the back of the seat. I can feel the gentle touch of his fingers playing with
my hair, and I watch as his eyes trail over my face. He has my full attention.

“It occurred to me that you had flown halfway across the world that day to see your best friend, and you were exhausted. How could I be angry at you for that? You were just as surprised to see me as I was to see you. No one had set me up. Joe had explained that neither he nor Terry knew you were coming, and that it was Jenny who’d invited you. Truth is, I never in a thousand years thought I would ever see you again. That doesn’t mean I never thought about you, Kate. I thought about you a lot, but I never thought I would see you again.”

His hand strokes my cheek, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. I am captured by his honesty, locked into his stare, completely drawn into him. Butterflies soar.

“I think fate stepped in, Kate, to right a wrong. I went over to your desk to find a piece of paper to say goodbye. It didn’t feel right leaving without at least saying that. That’s when I happened to see your itinerary on your desk, and I noticed that we’re on the same flight.”

“What? You’re kidding, right?” I laugh; I mean, come on. What are the chances of that happening?

“No, Kate, I’m serious.” He looks at me, completely sober. “That’s what I said about it being fate. We’re on the same flight tomorrow. I fly London to Los Angeles, then Los Angeles to Sydney. No joke.”

“Oh, my God, Matthew, that’s crazy!” I don’t quite know what to think.

“Anyway, once I saw that, I made the decision to see if you would meet me. I figured there were two
possible scenarios here. The first was that you’d say no, and wouldn’t show. Then I’d avoid you at the airport, and you wouldn’t even know we were on the same flight. The second was that you’d say yes and we’d spend however much time we could together, get seated together tomorrow on the plane, and part in LA as old friends with no regrets.” Matthew leans close to me once again as his lips brush against my ear. “I am glad you’re leaning toward the latter.”

“Fish and chips.” A young dark-haired girl interrupts us, sliding two large dinner plates onto the table. Her presence is a welcome break in the intense energy between Matthew and me. In front of us, the steaming plates are piled high with plump, thick, pub-style chips, a healthy portion of bright green fresh garden peas, and two enormous pieces of thick beer-battered cod. The food looks wonderful, and I am starving. The mood lightens as we delve into our delicious dinner.

The remaining conversation is easygoing. Matthew talks about work and day-to-day life in Australia. He owns a company that designs high-end custom kitchens, and I gather he is successful. His wife stays home and is a volunteer at his daughters’ school. The girls play sports in their free time, and he appears very much involved with their activities. He finds joy in being a father. When he speaks about his wife, Julia, I calculate they have been together around the same length of time as Dave and I have. I find it bizarre that our lives are so similar in certain ways, something I never expected.

“Where to next?” Matthew asks at the end of our meal as we head toward the exit.

“You don’t have other plans for the evening?” I secretly hope he is not ready to part ways yet. I am not sure how much of Matthew’s time I have—it is difficult to tell—but I assume he plans to return to his hotel for the evening soon. After all, since we are both flying out tomorrow and have made tentative plans to journey onward together, we can catch up on the flight. Although everything appears to be a bit up in the air right now, I suppose we will work out those finer details, such as where to meet tomorrow, before we part this evening. I like that we are being spontaneous; it is out of character for me, and I feel free, like a different person.

“Yes, I have plans to spend the next few hours with a beautiful tour guide who has promised to show me all the highlights of this great city,” he declares, once again taking my hand in his as we start walking back toward Trafalgar Square.

“In that case, kind sir, the next stop on our grand tour shall be where the queen resides,” I pronounce in my best posh English accent. “If you will kindly follow me, sir.” In the middle of the sidewalk, I bend down into an exaggerated curtsy, to Matthew’s delight. He starts laughing at me.

We run across the street toward Admiralty Arch, dodging a couple of buses and honking taxis. We pass through the left side arch, and Matthew admires the architecture and asks if I am positive I know where I am going. Then he tugs on my hand slightly, causing me to stop walking, and I find myself up against his chest, his face staring down into mine. The laughter from moments ago has silenced, and I am captivated by his serious face, his dark eyes. I cannot look away; I am drawn to him
like iron to a magnet.

I frantically search his eyes for answers; my breathing deepens in anticipation of his lips as they inch closer to mine. As if time stands still, the moment encompasses forever as his beautiful face descends to mine. Then a large raindrop plops from above onto my cheek, startling me and awakening me from my trance. Then another, and another. Within seconds, the sky opens up above us and sheets of rain surround us like a waterfall.