The Rocky Start To An Affair

 

Trying to convey the beginning of a relationship is probably harder than writing what happens to the people later on in their affair. Enda is a character who is set in his ways. He is attracted to Jessica, a very sophisticated lady, but hides his real feelings behind a wit that keeps getting him in trouble. Now and again, when feelings do surface through anger or sarcasm, his reward is a verbal slap. There's no brake on his mouth.

Jessica, brought up in diplomatic circles, knows how Enda feels but has him on a psychological tightrope. Before she decides if this savvy Irishman is right for her, he's going to have to be trained. The trouble is, she can't get through to him and its time for a few home truths.

Another chapter that went back and forth but I think its almost there. The trouble with this kind of chapter is it is never finished. Drawing from one's own experiences, I keep thinking back to my own affairs and remembering all the verbal slaps I received.                                                                         

CHAPTER NINE

I was sitting in the back of a taxi, almost back in Wapping, when Jessica called. She was in the British Museum library and asked me to meet her there. The cabby shrugged when I asked for a change of direction, and then shook a fist at a motorist who wouldn’t give way as we tried completing an illegal U turn in East Smithfield.

       Twenty-five minutes later I entered the building I have a quirky relationship with. Inside there’s a towering three storey curved gray wall that reminds me of the elephant house in London Zoo. It surrounds the library and blurs into an invisible vertical horizon against the gray outer concourse wall, no matter what angle you view it from. The concourse itself reminds me of some grand railway terminal full of travelers, either scurrying to catch a train or waiting to meet arrivals: a Lowery painting – busy, informal, and filled with anonymous people.

       It’s a different picture inside the library. A splendidly preserved Victorian legacy that boasts the works of authors, from great literary genius to obscure writers with one publication, both old and new, and one of the biggest first edition collections in the world that stands as a monument to the power of the word. From floor to ceiling, around three hundred and sixty degrees, the hearts and minds of adventurers, romantics, academics, heroes and storytellers adorn the shelves in a sea of priceless paper record.

      

 I stood for a couple of minutes soaking up the atmosphere, gazing around at students sitting at the original leather-topped desks with small brass reading lamps illuminating their intent faces. Oxford and all the nice things that I associated with university life flooded back into my mind.

       Gazing across the floor, my eyes focused on a face I recognized. Jessica stared back at me, one hand waving tauntingly, accompanied by a wry grin as I came out of my daydream. I took a deep breath, stuck my hands inside my trouser pockets, and ambled as nonchalantly as possible towards her.

       If I thought she was going to be facetious I was mistaken. She was excited. She had a big juicy bone she couldn’t wait to share.

       “Guess what?” she enthused as I slid into a seat by the next desk.

        She’d called Athens and spoken to Hrisacopolis secretary. Very little information came from the woman until she asked about the girl in the picture. Jessica paused, waiting for a reaction.

       “Okay,” I said, “so who is she?”

       “Don’t know. The secretary ended the conversation abruptly.”

       “So there’s a cover-up, a skeleton in the cupboard.”

       Jessica nodded. That wasn’t all though. She’d got a call back within a half hour authorizing her to receive as much information about the great man’s family, his Business Empire, and political career as she liked.

       There had to be a punch line. I waited patiently as she rose with an armful of reference books and notepad she’d been working with. She looked down at me with a big smile.

       I told her I wasn’t going to move until she told all. If it was good enough I’d buy her dinner. Don’t know why I said that. Well, I did, I guessed. It was one of those spur of the moment things that present themselves when the more conventional way of asking a girl out seems to get lost in some dark corner of a dormant brain, namely mine.

       She sat again and, still clutching the books, bit her bottom lip before telling me. We were going on an all expenses paid cruise. Her face lit up, excited at the prospect.

       I didn’t know whether to be excited or not. Going on a cruise was great but my offer of dinner didn’t quite match up to a Greek billionaire’s invitation. I swallowed my pride and smiled. Not only a cruise but we had a private meeting as well.

        While aboard his flagship, our opportunity to interview him exclusively for the Herald included heads up on a statement being made public twenty-four hours later. This statement, according to the secretary, was of great importance to the future of the Hrisacopolis industry, the Greek people, and the European Community.

       Jessica’s face lit up. It could be a world exclusive.

       “Crap.”

       “Enda!”

       “I said it quietly.”

       “I don’t care.”

        Too late, I realized I’d gone too far again. Me and my big mouth.

       Jessica rose from her chair, very angry, dropping some of the books on the floor. I bent down to pick them up. She brushed my hand away. “I don’t think this is going to work. Maybe you should do this assignment with someone else.”

       I stood and gently tugged her arm as she made to leave. “Jessica, wait a minute, we need to talk.”

       “No we don’t!” she hissed.

       Turning on her heel, she faced me, her eyes on fire and her voice full of anger. “For all I know you could be right about Hrisacopolis and any number of other subjects you care to name. As a journalist you’re on the top table and well read. The British Establishment – the very people you appear to despise – love your column. I wonder what they’d think if they knew about your bad manners and foul language. As a writer you’re one of the best: as a gentleman, a damn disgrace. You need to grow up and stop being so bloody childish. Max was right about you.” She glared at me and marched off, leaving me stunned.

       I left the library feeling guilty and embarrassed. Her words stung in much the same way Max’s had. She knew me better than I knew myself. I walked across the concourse feeling thoroughly miserable and annoyed at my stupidity.

       I stopped to pull my collar up at the main entrance. Somewhere inside my head was a self destruct switch I needed to disarm. The weather matched my mood as I descended the steps to the courtyard. I started analyzing myself, wondering what the hell I was doing letting feelings about Jessica get in the way of work. She was right. I did a lot of cursing. I wasn’t much of a gentleman. Why would I ever assume she might find me interesting when I couldn’t even be polite?

       My cell phone rang. Her voice sounded in my ear before I could say a word. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so spiteful. You are truly the most irritating man I’ve ever known.”

       My pulse quickened. “I was going to say-.” She hung up. Elation turned to disappointment.

       By the time I reached Great Russell Street, the rain returned with a vengeance, battering my trilby and soaking the shoulders of my coat. People dived for cover in little book shops or under canopies. Me, I was so full of mixed emotions I didn’t care about getting wet. I didn’t care about Hrisacopolis, the paper, Max, Hart or the rest of the world either. She said she was sorry for being hurtful. I was trying to read between the lines but couldn’t find any hidden message. The tone of her voice was flat and unfeeling despite her apology.

       The phone rang again. It was her.

       “There’s a coffee shop in Dyott Street, this side of Oxford Street. Meet me here. Do you want coffee?”

     

  “Yes…. thanks.”

       She hung up again.

      

 I found the coffee shop five minutes later. Opening the door, the hum of conversation accompanied by clattering crockery, a hissing cappuccino machine and a squeaking overhead fan jangled in my eardrums. Jessica was sitting over in one corner, sipping coffee. I approached cautiously with a half smile on my face.

       “Hi,” I said, and sat down. I felt a sudden urge to throw myself at her feet. “Please don’t throw in the towel. You had some great news and I spoiled the moment.”

       She was looking down at her coffee, fiddling with the spoon in the saucer. “We both spoiled the moment, Enda. You have a sense of humor that thrives when directed at the establishment or those who grew up more privileged than yourself. Max filled me in on a few details.”

       Again, I felt annoyed at Max but let it pass. Saying nothing, I picked up my coffee. She wasn’t finished and I had no intention of interrupting her again. The noise around us faded and her words became loud and clear.

       She was far too sensitive, she continued. A young black girl brought up in predominantly white diplomatic circles was hard. Her father spent his whole life climbing the diplomatic ladder, serving the British Crown’s far flung territories in the Caribbean, and finally the Cayman Islands as Deputy Commissioner. Her mother taught her to be mindful of the silly British Colonial culture that dictated dress sense for breakfast, afternoon tea and evening dinner. She was discouraged from talking too much until she could talk like an English lady. Piano lessons and ballet classes were an absolute must. Her parents frowned at her if she talked to another child not of her class. Class was very important to her father. He was proud and rose from a sugar plantation cropper to a respected government official. Unfortunately, unlike those who arrived in a diplomatic bag direct from London, he was never part of the Westminster club. It took more than appearances and money to become a member.

       They lived in a style others of their color envied. They mixed socially with other staff and their families as long as they knew their place in the pecking order. Her father and

mother loved the life, though she knew her mother was hurt on many occasions by the sharp tongues of other diplomats’ wives who spent half their lives gossiping. There was never any obvious racism but it was there. One could decipher the hidden messages in conversations and remarks made around the tea table at four in the afternoon for example. Surrounded by snobs and having to constantly turn the other cheek, Jessica got bored and eventually convinced her father to send her to Europe.

        She sighed, then smiled, seemingly glad to have said what was on her mind.        

       “It’s strange that I get a little touchy now after such an upbringing.”

       “No, it’s not,” I said, “you’ve shaken off the rule book but retained the guidelines. You know, we come from different backgrounds but are both rebelling against something we don’t like.”

       “Perhaps, although I think I’m rebelling against more than a childhood, Enda.”

       She looked straight into my eyes and spoke. It was almost as though she’d said it to herself.

       I smiled. “Maybe.”

       It could have been my overactive imagination but I thought I heard more than a conciliatory tone.