He reached out and picked up one of the wavy clumps. ‘Was your hair always this long? It’s very sexy.’
‘Yes,’ I said, frowning. I edged away. All his idiotic behaviours were coming back to me. Now that I wasn’t at the mercy of my hormones, he was simply an annoyance – not even worth getting worked up about. ‘It was always this long. In fact, you insisted I never cut it. Sounds like you’re having some memory problems. I’d watch the recreational drug use, if I were you.’
Still playing with my hair, he ignored my dig and inspected the Band-Aid on my neck. ‘What’s this?’ He touched it with one finger.
I smacked his hand away.
‘A nasty hickey, if you must know. Nothing I’d want my clients to see.’
‘A hickey, eh? Someone marking his territory?’
‘You, Dr Radcliffe, are a sexist pig.’
He trailed a finger across the top of my breast and gave me his ‘Aren’t I a naughty boy?’ face I remembered so well.
I grabbed the offending finger and bent it backwards, causing him to yelp with pain and pull his hand away.
What a jerk. I guess you really can’t teach an old horndog new tricks. Why am I even being nice to this fool? Is my old self-destructive pattern really that powerful?
‘As usual, you’ve misinterpreted my actions and you’re being irrational.’ He rubbed his wounded digit. ‘Of course, all women are emotional basket cases. Freud was really on to something with his notions of female psychology. Hysterics, every last one of you. I was merely attempting to show you that I still find you attractive. You needn’t have resorted to violence.’
Wow. I guess I’m angrier at him than I realised. But he’s such an asshole.
I didn’t address anything he said because I knew what he was up to and I was already tired of his games. He just couldn’t believe that a woman would turn him down – that his routine hadn’t worked. I remember being jealous for most of the time we’d been together because Tom just couldn’t resist flirting with every waitress, clerk or secretary he encountered. Why hadn’t I noticed his pitiful insecurity before? And why had I blamed myself?
He stood silent for a few seconds, watching me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said so quietly I could barely make out the words.
‘What?’ I shifted my gaze to his. He couldn’t have said what I thought I heard. He never apologised.
He cleared his throat. ‘I said I’m sorry.’ His usual arrogant manner had vanished, like dropping a mask. His brown eyes appeared sincere.
I stared at him, my mouth open, frowning. I lowered the mascara wand. ‘Sorry? For what?’ What’s going on? Is this a trap? Is he setting me up? I’m not sensing anything. Where are my abilities when I really need them?
He blinked a couple of times and sighed. ‘For the way I broke things off with you. I was an idiot. I regretted it immediately, but I always thought you deserved more than me, someone who could really be there for you – especially after what you went through with your parents – so I forced myself to stay away, to let you think what you now think of me. But I am sorry. I don’t want you to hate me any more.’
The mascara wand fell onto the counter with a clunk, leaving a gummy black blob. ‘You’re sorry?’ My brain couldn’t process the words. I scanned his face and remembered times when we first got together that Tom had been warm and kind. Before he began to buy into the psychology department’s promotion of him as the ‘next big thing’. Before his ego took over. Times when he really did live up to the potential I saw in him. That’s why ending the relationship had been so hard for me. He was the only person I’d ever trusted. But I hadn’t seen any evidence of that version of Tom for years. Who was this stranger in my bathroom?
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I hope someday we can be friends again. I miss you. You were more important to me than I wanted to acknowledge. I made the decision to focus on my career and I treated you poorly, pushed you away. I do sincerely apologise.’ He rubbed his eyes, then cleared his throat. ‘But that’s about as much self-disclosure as I can stand for one day, so I’m going to stop talking now.’
I watched the mask slip back into place.
We stared at each other for endless seconds, then I reached down for my mascara wand, the surreal spell broken.
I didn’t know what to feel in that moment. Sad, confused, shocked? Who knew he could still be human under his shallow, relentless quest for outer success?
‘I don’t know how to treat you now.’ I turned my attention back to the mirror. ‘You’ve blasted my assumptions out of the water. Who are you?’
He gave a talk-show-host smile. ‘I’m still the same Tom you’ve come to expect. Let’s just leave it there. I intend to be the most famous psychologist in the world.’
‘Okay.’ Back to normal. Abnormal? I’d definitely need to take this bizarre development to Nancy. He’d just rewritten my reality. ‘A friend is coming by pretty soon,’ I mumbled, my face close to the mirror so I could finish putting on my mascara without smudging it. My hands were still a little shaky. I hadn’t expected to have such a deeply held truth overturned in a matter of minutes. ‘We’re going out to a club downtown. I meant to call you and cancel for tonight, but I forgot.’
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. Sound carried easily in my small townhouse.
Tom turned and raced down the stairs, yelling, ‘I’ll get it.’
I’d put money on the fact that he assumed my friend would be female.
‘Is Kismet here?’ Alan asked, giving each syllable a slightly higher pitch, as if he momentarily thought he’d come to the wrong door.
I didn’t hear anything for a few seconds and then Tom obviously recovered from his dashed expectations and reclaimed his innate pomposity. ‘Yes, of course, please come in. I’m an old friend of hers. Tom. Tom Radcliffe.’
‘I’ll be right there, Alan,’ I called down the stairs. ‘Just give me a few minutes. Get him something to drink, Tom.’
I went into my bedroom thinking about the weird conversation with Tom and dressed in the outfit I’d laid out for the evening. Then I returned to the bathroom for some finishing touches to my makeup and hair. I even squirted on a hint of the perfume a friend had sent me from Paris on her last trip.
Not having been to a dance club in years, I hadn’t known what to wear, but I figured jeans would probably work. I had an expensive pair that I’d bought a few months back and hadn’t worn yet, and the length was great for the high heels on my favourite black boots. I’d be even taller than usual tonight, but I felt like taking up space.
I was glad to have an excuse to wear one of my new shirts. It was the colour of a summer sky, form-fitting and low-cut. I’d had to buy a special bra for this top because none of my regular undergarments were skimpy enough.
Going out also gave me a chance to wear the beautiful Victorian azure-drop necklace and earring set I’d bought for myself as a birthday present last year. They matched my eyes perfectly and made me feel feminine – an unfamiliar experience.
Feeling rather excited about the evening, I came down the stairs and joined them in the living room. Alan’s lips spread in a wicked grin. He’d dressed in fresh jeans and replaced the wrinkled white T-shirt with a deep-blue version that matched his eyes.
‘Wow, you look great,’ he said. ‘Positively edible. And you smell wonderful.’
‘Yes, you really do,’ echoed Tom.
I said a silent ‘thank you’ to the helpful sales clerk who’d talked me into buying some bright colours and current fashions. Maybe it was time for me to go visit her again.
I felt pretty good and I had to admit I was enjoying the appreciative expressions on their faces. It had been a long time since I’d dressed up on purpose. It was nice to see that my efforts had paid off. Hell, it had been a long time since I’d had two handsome men paying attention to me. A long time? Try never.