Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection. Kathleen Tessaro
And then on Saturday, the most extraordinary thing happened.
Someone noticed me.
A man.
I was on my lunch break and famished. Not just hungry but ravenous. I’d run to Prêt à Manger and bought a tuna salad and a chocolate brownie. Then, back in the theatre, I hid inside the empty auditorium, tucked away in one of the ancient red velvet boxes to eat. Eating is, in fact, putting it politely. What I was actually doing was savaging my food, complete with little grunting noises; leaning in close to the plastic container for maximum intake in the minimum amount of time. It was the kind of eating a girl only does on her own, usually in front of the television, dressed in a pair of pyjamas she hasn’t been out of all day. Except, I wasn’t alone; there was someone watching me.
I didn’t recognize him. Wearing jeans and a faded blue sweatshirt, he had dark, almost black hair and brown, heavy eyes.
He just stood there, hands crammed into his pockets, staring at me. And when I caught sight of him, I nearly choked on a caper.
‘That’s a funny place to eat,’ he smiled.
Oh God, a techy, I thought disparagingly. One of those guys who paint scenery while exposing their bum cracks. Piss off and leave me alone.
‘If I go upstairs, they’ll nick my brownie and I’m really hungry,’ I explained curtly. I turned my attention once again to the total annihilation of my feast but he continued to stand there, digging his hands ever deeper into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.
‘Are you new here? I don’t recognize you,’ he continued amiably.
‘No. I work in the box office.’ I finished each sentence like I was finishing the conversation but he lingered on, enduring my silence and indifference. I picked lamely at my food. He was putting me off my stride – I felt self-conscious and all too aware of the fact I was eating my tuna salad with a spoon.
He asked me some more questions, about the box office hours and what I thought of the company, but mostly he stared at me. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing but it made me nervous and uncomfortable. Eventually, I threw my salad away and made my excuses. Back in the box office, I ranted to Colin about my ruined lunch.
‘Well, my little Vixen, what do you expect?’ he laughed, pouring me a cup of sugary tea. ‘He likes you.’
‘Me?! Get real, Col.’
‘Face facts, Ouise. The man fancies you. And by the way, he isn’t just a techy: he’s our new hot-shot director and his name’s Oliver Wendt. Bit of a dish, if you ask me.’
I felt odd – slightly ill, tingly and adolescent.
‘Fancies me?’ I echoed.
Colin gave me a hug from behind. ‘Yes, Louise. Fancies you. Better get used to it.’
When I left the theatre at the end of the day, Oliver Wendt was having a cigarette on the front steps of the building.
For someone I’d never noticed before, he suddenly seemed to be everywhere.
‘Good night, Louise,’ he called after me.
I stopped and turned. ‘You know my name.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, stubbing the cigarette end out under his heel. ‘And my name’s Oliver, so now you know mine.’ He was looking straight into my eyes. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, echoing around the seemingly hollow recess of my head. I turned away and smiled to myself.
‘Good night, Oliver,’ I called, and as my voice drifted off behind me, I felt sure he was smiling too.
I walked home as slowly as I could, reluctant to lose the buzz of adrenaline that coursed through my limbs. And that night, as I lay beside my husband in bed, for once I didn’t fall into a coma of sleep.
Sunday I got up early, long before my husband was conscious, and made my way to Oxford Street. I went to Top Shop and wandered around the cavernous store for hours, mesmerized by the video screens, pulsating music, and vast selection of clothing.
At last, after trying on what was easily half the stock, I settled on a pair of steely grey, wide-legged trousers and a pale pink, fitted cardigan top. Then, invigorated by my purchases, I walked across the street to Jones and bought a pair of black ankle boots with a kitten heel. And suddenly, in a single afternoon, the thing I had never allowed myself to do was done. The brown beret and second-hand trench coat were gone and I emerged, butterfly-like in all my Top Shop glory.
Monday, I’m due to meet Nicki in Tom’s at noon. I get to Tom’s a little late, and Nicki’s already there, guzzling a latte with all the desperation of a junkie. She looks up and I wave. But instead of waving back, she just frowns at me. Something’s wrong with this picture.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say, piling my coat on the chair between us. ‘Been here long?’
She’s examining me, her eyes registering every detail of my being. ‘You look different,’ she concludes.
‘Yes,’ I smile, pleased she’s noticed.
‘Those trousers are new!’ This is not an observation but an indignant accusation.
‘Yes.’ I pull out a chair and swivel my hips proudly.
‘When did you go shopping?’ she demands.
‘On Sunday.’
I sit down and a young man with spiky hair and an apron comes over to take my order.
‘And what can I get for you?’ He’s smiling and his eyes are gleaming. Normally I have to wave my hands in the air like an air traffic controller before anyone takes any notice of me, so this makes a nice change. I smile back.
‘What’s good today?’ I ask.
‘Well … there’s the soup, which today is roasted red pepper and avocado, it’s a cold soup but then,’ he winks at me, ‘you seem like a cold soup kinda person.’
‘Do I indeed!’ I giggle.
Nicki can’t stand it. ‘We don’t have time for that! We’ve got work to do.’
‘I could bring it right away,’ he offers. So accommodating.
‘That would be great, and an orange juice please. Thanks.’
‘No trouble. Freshly squeezed?’
‘Of course.’
‘I should’ve known,’ he smiles.
‘Excuse me!’ Nicki throws her cup down onto the saucer. ‘I ordered something almost twenty minutes ago, if you don’t mind!’
‘Certainly.’ He winks at me again as he leaves. Nicki’s outraged.
‘The service here is appalling. And the food’s gone right downhill. God, I’ve had enough of this. Come on.’ She slaps a fiver down on the table. ‘Let’s go to Angelo’s instead.’ She pulls on her black Prada duffel coat and storms down the steps.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to the spiky-haired young man, as I run to catch her up at the door.
Nicki’s cooling her heels in the street. ‘Listen, let’s just go home,’ she says. ‘I can make us something to eat.’
‘Fine,’ I agree and we walk to her house in silence.
When we arrive, Dan’s sending a fax in the kitchen.
‘Hey, Louise. You look great! Have you lost weight?’
‘No, thanks, Dan. Just got some new trousers.’
‘They’re really cute. Turn around.’
I do a little pirouette and Nicki rolls her eyes. She throws her coat on top of the dog and pushes past us.
‘For God’s sake,