Two to Tango, page 15
‘Wait, wait. I’m cooking.’
My mouth locked on hers, I carry her into the kitchen. She turns off the gas under the frying pan. I start walking us away.
‘No, no, the oven is on too.’
I pull back from her and raise a brow; she just giggles. I like that I can do that to her. She fiddles with the oven knobs and, finally, I get her to the sofa.
I bring her down in my lap, her legs straddling mine, and as our mouths meet, as I feel her chest press against mine, I know Sarah was right. I just need to go with it.
As I run my thumbs down her neck, she rocks her head back, giving me access to her soft skin.
‘You seemed distant today,’ she says, breathlessly. ‘I wasn’t sure this was on the cards.’
‘I was thinking, that’s all.’
‘Dangerous. What did you think about?’
‘I decided we should think less and kiss more.’
She smiles and presses her lips to mine for a lingering, torturous kiss.
If I were a religious man, I would curse God right now. Why send this incredible feeling to me in the form of an antagonizing, self-righteous, amazing woman?
We are lying together on the sofa, our breaths beginning to slow, my racing heart starting to calm. Izzy runs her fingers over me, her soft touch blissful.
‘You never did tell me about this tattoo,’ she says.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know she’s talking about Alice in Wonderland.
It’s the opportune moment to tell her, or at least give her something. Mention Alice, drop in Cady. But I don’t because I haven’t got this all straight in my own head yet and right now, I just want to be uncomplicated Brooks who can simply enjoy this woman touching him.
‘A guy called Crazy Joe from Brooklyn gave it to me. It was my first tattoo. Before I really thought about how they would all look together. He was an old veteran who went mad. When he died, he left me some money – not a lot – and said in his will that I was to open my own gym.’
‘Wow, and that’s where it all started?’
‘Yep. Why don’t you tell me about the tiny love heart I’ve noticed on your hip bone?’
‘It’s pitiful really, isn’t it?’ She looks down at the solid inked heart, which can’t be bigger than a thumbnail. ‘I wanted to defy my parents but didn’t really want a tattoo. I wanted to do just enough to tick them off but didn’t dare go further.’
‘Your parents seem to have quite a lot to answer for.’
She shrugs and pushing up on my chest until she’s kneeling. ‘Not my dad. He was never around enough to have anything to answer for. At least not when the business took off. I was still young then.’
I sit up so that we are facing each other and peck the tip of her nose. ‘What business is your dad in?’
‘Have you heard of Russell’s Crackers and Rumble Tum biscuits?’
‘Um, no.’
‘Well, they’re just two of the better-known brands owned by my dad’s company. They’re very big in Europe.’
I whistle through my teeth. ‘You really are a rich girl.’
‘No, my parents are. And, boy, does my mother like everyone to know it.’
Feeling her mood shift to something less than happy, I hold her face and kiss her.
‘You must be ready for that steak now,’ I say, guiding her off the sofa.
We retrieve our discarded clothes from the lounge floor. I pull on my jeans and Izzy re-dresses in the sexy white shirt she had on earlier. Between us, we make an outfit.
She puts a large bowl of green salad on the kitchen counter with two plates, while I get us two glasses of iced green tea – actually not as awful as it sounds. After ten minutes of messing with the stovetop, she puts a sirloin on her plate, then turns to the oven and takes out a tray. I watch in astonishment as she uses a spatula to put a chicken breast on my plate.
‘What’s this?’
‘A peace offering. You were right; maybe I do need to think more about tailoring plans to different needs.’
‘I see. And by tailoring my plan, what you really mean is giving me sufficient food to power your orgasms.’
She plants a hand on her hip and points the spatula toward me the way she’d point a finger. ‘Do you want the chicken or not?’
‘Hell, yeah. I also want the orgasms.’
She snorts as she laughs.
‘Real attractive, Iz.’ My words only make her laugh harder.
After dinner, we sit on the sofa and I get the guitar.
‘Here, it’s yours, on loan, until…’ I can’t bring myself to finish that sentence.
She takes the guitar from me and rests it across her knee. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re bored and I decided today that I would rather have you rattling away at my guitar than walking outside where I can’t see you.’
She looks up at me with wide eyes.
‘What?’
‘I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.’
I fight my curling lips. ‘Yeah, well, you need to get out more.’
As I settle into the opposite corner of the sofa, she starts to strum a song I don’t recognize. She stops to tune the guitar and then sets off again. It’s a delicate picked opening, using only the bottom three strings. Then she starts to strum, and a gentle, melodious voice follows.
She sings about a soldier leaving for war. About the people he leaves behind and the friends he’s going to make. The song and her voice are enchanting. I’m drawn in by the smooth flow of her wrist, the gentle shuffle of her fingers, the movement in her neck as she forms the lyrics.
When she’s finished, she hands the guitar to me. ‘Your turn.’
I take it from her. ‘You didn’t tell me you could play the guitar like that, as well as sing. What was that song?’
‘It’s actually something I wrote. Did you like it?’
‘Like it? Izzy, that was amazing.’
Her cheeks flush as she curls her legs beneath her and rests an elbow on the back of the sofa. ‘It’s what I used to want to do.’
‘Sing?’
‘All of the arts, really. Singing, dancing, songwriting, theatre.’
‘Why didn’t you stick with it?’
Suddenly her warmth fades. ‘Because my mother stopped me at every opportunity. Because it wasn’t taking steps toward being a doctor. Because it wasn’t guaranteed to earn money. It was like the figure skating. As soon as I started competing, she stopped me. When I wanted to apply to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, she refused to let me.’
‘So now you sort of dance for a living but don’t?’
‘But don’t. That’s funny. Now I pretend I know what I’m talking about and make YouTube videos and I wrote one book but don’t have enough material for another without completely going against my own advice. I never go out and I have no friends, so who won?’
‘If you don’t enjoy it, why do you do it?’
‘There’s a question.’ She forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, then sighs and rests her head on her palm. ‘I love dancing and being fit and healthy. If the book is a success, then… I don’t know, I guess I feel like I have something to prove.’
‘To your parents?’
‘It sounds silly, doesn’t it? You don’t even have to answer that. I’m twenty-eight years old and I still give a shit about what my parents think.’ I swallow hard, knowing this is another opportunity to mention Cady. I don’t. ‘You want to break free of your parents, defy them, and make them proud all at once. It doesn’t sound silly so much as limiting.’
‘How do you mean?’
I run my thumb gently down the strings of the guitar, thinking of the right thing to say. ‘At some point, you need to start living your life for you and not other people.’
The irony of that statement is not lost on me. For so long, I’ve been living for what could have been. Under some illusion that maybe if I was good enough, I would get Alice back, that we would be a family with Cady. In reality, my daughter is about to go to college and her mother is never going to be mine.
Maybe Izzy’s right. Maybe it is time I think about what I really want from life. Maybe I need a new plan.
I sit forward, set the guitar across my knee, and start to play the chords to Johnny Cash’s ‘Hey Porter.’
I set all other thoughts aside and in my best version of Johnny Cash’s southern accent, I sing the opening lyrics to the song.
The sound of Izzy’s laughter is reason alone to keep playing and forget everything else. I strum faster and sing harder. Izzy stands on the sofa and starts wiggling her hips and turning her arms to the beat. Soon, she’s singing along. Both of us are happy and carefree.
Tonight, life is better than okay.
22
BROOKS
Days six and seven are a blur of sex, bickering, makeup sex, chicken, steak, kale, and laughter. We find it amusing to play up to the reporters but when we aren’t giving them much of a new story, they seem to get bored.
We never mention Izzy’s leaving in a week. We steer clear of the topic of family and difficult questions. Instead, we talk music, sports, movies, and mundane things, like which brands of running shoes we prefer. Izzy educates me on how to make a perfect cup of English tea and I tell her about JFK and the Kennedy family.
We are in a bubble that we decide to make unbreakable by not letting in any deep thoughts or outside influences. It is one of the best times of my life and I can say that without needing years to reflect.
The bubble just popped. I’m just getting out of the shower at my place before going to see Izzy for dinner. At the sound of my phone ringing, I wrap a towel around my waist and find my cell.
‘Hey, Cady.’
‘Hi, Mr Adams, it’s not Cady. It’s her friend Meghan.’
My mind immediately goes into red alert. ‘Where’s Cady?’
‘I’m with her but she’s really drunk.’ I can hear now the alcohol in Meghan’s words too.
‘Where are you?’
‘We’re at her boyfriend’s house. There’s a party and she’s been drinking a lot.’
I move to the bedroom and start to pull on clothes, still talking to Meghan as I grab my car keys and she relays the address.
‘Are you with her?’
‘Yes. We’re in the bathroom. She’s sick. She can’t really walk and she only wants you.’
‘Okay, Meghan. You two stay in the bathroom. I’m on my way.’
In my panic, I almost forget about Izzy.
I double back and knock loudly on her door. What the on earth am I supposed to tell her?
‘Izzy, come on, I need to speak to you.’
When she pulls open the door, I’m struck by the smell of vanilla from the candles burning around the living room. I wasn’t prepared for candles. I really wasn’t expecting to see Izzy in stiletto heels and a short silk robe. And I definitely couldn’t have anticipated her running her fingers down the silk and parting the robe to reveal a black lace bodice, stockings, and a garter belt.
Goddamn it.
‘Izzy, I’m sorry, I have to be somewhere.’
‘Somewhere as in not here?’ She closes the robe around herself.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry. Christ, I’m more sorry than you know but I have to go.’
‘I… what? Is everything okay?’
‘Yes. No. I can’t explain right now. Ah man, you look so hot.’ Growling, I drag my hands over my face. ‘I’m sorry, Izzy, really fucking sorry.’
In my truck, I burst from the underground garage and concentrate on nothing except looking for police and getting to Cady as fast as I can. I ignore the part of my mind that knows I’ve just brought a shitstorm down on Izzy and me.
The address Meghan gave me leads me to a tired-looking block of apartments, seven or eight stories high. As soon as I step out of the truck, I can hear and see the party on the first floor. Multicolored lights flash behind curtains, and dance music bellows. There are students outside the main entrance, smoking and drinking from brown paper bags. There’s a distinct stench of cigarettes and the sweet smell of marijuana in the air.
A few girls whistle as I pass by them and dip into the building. Two guys exit, staggering. The corridor, full of people making out and otherwise acting like dicks, leads me to the party.
Inside, music pounds in my ears. Teenage girls are wearing too few clothes and the air has a musty, stale-sweat smell. I peel the hands of a young girl off my chest and ignore the glares I receive from drunk young men, who really shouldn’t mess with me right now, as I search for the bathroom.
A line of girls gives me a pretty good idea where I’m going.
‘Is this the bathroom?’ I yell above the music.
‘Yeah, but someone has been in there forever.’
I knock on the door. ‘Cady?’ I rap harder. ‘Cady! Open the door, it’s me.’
When there’s still no answer, I kick the door. Once is enough to tear the feeble lock from the wall.
‘Jesus, Cady.’
She’s alone in the bathroom, propped between the shower cubicle and the toilet, black streaks running down her face, her eyes barely able to open. Her phone is next to her on the floor but there’s no sign of Meghan.
‘Dad?’
I hunker down in front of her and take hold of her cheeks. ‘Look at me. Cady, look at me. Is this just alcohol?’
She nods weakly.
‘Promise?’
‘Yes,’ she murmurs.
I open her eyelids with my thumbs. I’ve seen people on drugs, and her white irises and normal-sized pupils let me know she’s telling the truth. I stuff her phone into my back pocket.
‘All right, baby, let’s go. Arms around my neck. Good girl.’
I hoist her up in my arms. She clings tighter to me and rests her head on my shoulder as I carry her out of the party to the safety of my truck. I buckle her into the passenger seat and rummage in the back for a bag of sorts. I find an old gym towel that will have to do.
Bringing the towel to the front with me, I start the engine. Before I even pull away, she retches. I manage to get the towel under her and catch most of the vomit.
‘It’s just a little sick, baby. You’re fine.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she cries.
Despite feeling irate with her, my heart aches at the sound of her tears.
‘We’ve all been here, kiddo. Let’s get you home.’
I toss the towel in a dumpster and drive us home, trying not to weave or turn too much. We make it back to the basement garage without any more vomiting.
I don’t waste my energy asking if she can stand; instead, I unbuckle her and pick her up. A guy I recognize from the building is making his way out of the garage. He helps me by closing and locking the truck. then opens the garage door and helps me to the elevator.
Cady seems to come to inside.
‘I have vomit on me,’ she says, crying again.
I don’t tell her I’m fully aware of the stench of it. As I carry her along the hall toward my apartment, she starts to unbutton the shirt she’s wearing.
‘Cady, you can’t take your clothes off here. We’re almost there.’
‘I want them off. Take them off me.’
I struggle to hold her and open the door. Inside, I carry her to her bedroom and lay her down on the bed. As I start to untie her boots, she begins heaving again.
‘I’m going to be sick, Dad.’
I catch the first round in her wastebasket, then carry her to the bathroom and sit her next to the toilet, where I finish taking off her boots. She throws her guts up again, almost 90 per cent hitting the target. I hold her hair back and rub her shoulders as round four comes.
She seems more with it when she sits back against the white tiled wall. I slip down to the floor, one knee bent, my back against the bathtub, and hand her a box of tissues.
‘Thanks. I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry, kiddo. Tell your head in the morning.’
‘It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?’
‘Like a bitch.’
She starts crying again.
‘Do you want to tell me what all this is about?’
‘I got dumped. Spectacularly. In front of an entire room full of people. And that was after I caught him with his hand up some other girl’s skirt.’
‘Do you really want to be with a guy who can do that when he’s with a knockout like you?’
She part smiles. I’ll take it. ‘You’re my dad – you have to say things like that. And no, I don’t want to be with him but it can still hurt, right?’
‘Yeah, it can still hurt, baby. Were you supposed to be going home tonight?’
She shakes her head. ‘I was going to stay with Meghan.’
‘Then I won’t call your mom until tomorrow, but I’ll text her and tell her you decided to stay here instead.’
‘Thanks.’
‘As for that Meghan character, she left you on a bathroom floor in a very vulnerable state. You might want to rethink your close friendships.’
She blows her nose like an old man.
‘How are you feeling? Like you want to be sick again?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘Come on, then, let’s get you to bed.’ I stand and put paste on her toothbrush, then hold it out to her.
‘Do I really have to brush my teeth?’
‘Not if you would rather they fell out from all the acid you vomited over them.’
‘Point taken.’
I help her stand and hold her steady as she gives her mouth a half-hearted clean. Then I walk her to bed.
‘Do I need to help you get into pajamas?’
She gives me a drunken, tired laugh. ‘You should see the horror on your face right now.’
‘Get into bed; I’ll bring you some water.’
When I return to her room, she’s already tucked under the covers.
‘Here, drink up. You’ll thank me tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think I’ll do much of anything tomorrow.’
