Oona Out of Order, page 21
“I got this for you.” Edward slid a small square box across the table.
“It’s not the ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ coffee mug, is it? I was kidding when I said my life wouldn’t be complete without it.” But when she opened the box, her breath caught in her throat. “Oh.” She pulled out a snow globe containing a pyramid. “This is even better.”
“I thought you would appreciate the snow-in-the-desert irony.”
“You have no idea.” A puzzled delight unfolded within her while gazing at him. She hadn’t noticed the gold flecks in his sleepy blue eyes before, or the endearing way he giggled when something funny caught him by surprise. Who knew the withered could still blossom with new life? How unlikely.
Edward initially planned on a five-day trip, but he extended his stay to spend more time with Oona. While she offered to foot the bill, he insisted on paying his way, though he did agree to share her hotel room. The first week, even when sleeping in the same bed, she didn’t let things go beyond kissing. The depth of their connection—the impossibility yet inevitability of it—overwhelmed her, and she needed to keep the physical at bay to process the rest of it.
But there was only so long she could resist their chemistry. Eight days into the trip, they had sex on a sleeper train to Aswan.
Those early days in Egypt were glorious—worth it. What was it about Edward that made him so damn alluring? There was the physical attraction, the things they had in common—beyond music and movies, a similar sarcastic sense of humor and a progressive political outlook. But it was more his effect on her: she felt drunk around him, out of her senses. She wanted to tell him every thought that came into her head, wanted to touch him all the time. He reciprocated her intensity. It was infatuation that could never be sated, two thirsty people drinking the ocean.
In Aswan, Oona ate some lamb kebabs that gave her a nasty bout of food poisoning. While she was bedridden for two days, Edward remained at her side and put a romantic spin even on her illness: he fed her soda and saltines; read her American newspapers and magazines; placed cool, damp towels over her forehead (“it’s more for headaches and fevers, but my mum did this whenever I got ill, and I always found it comforting”).
Once she recovered, the rest of the trip unfurled like an upbeat movie montage. Edward suppressed his plummeting phobia so they could take a hot-air balloon ride over the temples and farmlands of Luxor. In the Valley of the Kings, they climbed into tombs, humming the Indiana Jones theme song until the colorful, spectacularly preserved hieroglyphs within stunned them into silence. They traveled north to coastal Alexandria, strolling the Corniche waterfront promenade lined with palm trees, enjoying the city’s refreshing salty breezes and relaxed Mediterranean vibe.
After a two-week loop around the country, they ended up back in Cairo, weary from sightseeing all day and having feverish sex throughout the night. Oona wanted to extend their trip, prolong this suspended state of bliss; she worried the magic might begin to dissipate the moment they returned to New York. But it was time to go home.
Their last night in Cairo, they dined in a restaurant with wooden lanterns hanging from the ceiling, votive candles in filigreed brass holders, and gauzy purple curtains woven with gold stars. Edward took Oona’s hand in both of his and kissed her knuckles. “This may sound barmy, but I’ve never connected like this with anyone. I can’t explain it. It’s almost like we’ve met before.”
“That’s exactly what it is.” It was hard not to cry, hard not to let knowledge of the future take away from the present.
“Mind you, I’ve never believed in past lives or destiny or any of that malarkey. But something about this—about you—feels…”
“Meant to be.” Wax dripped down the sides of the candle holder between them, formed a small puddle on the wooden table. Oona poked at the wax, let it coat the tip of her finger and mask her fingerprint. “I wish it could be like this when we get back to New York.”
“Real life will get in the way, to an extent, but whatever this is between us isn’t going to go away, not any time soon. I won’t go away. I’m mad about you.”
They smiled until their faces hurt.
Back in New York, real life did get in the way, to an extent. Edward’s hectic schedule at a Carroll Gardens bistro limited their time together, though not to the degree it would once he ran Clary’s. Even so, Oona found herself with an abundance of free hours. To fill them, she volunteered at a food bank and the local library. She also resumed her guitar lessons, this time with an older, female instructor, and marveled at retaining a skill she hadn’t yet picked up chronologically. As always, she studied the binder. (Boeing was a key position that year. After she bought the stock at $16 a share in 1982, it split four times, taking her from 600 to 4,050 shares; she’d sold off half in 1997 at $57 and would soon buy more shares at $26, letting the position grow to over $400 in years to come.) She also took regular walks in Prospect Park, a habit she’d maintained ever since Kenzie brought her there during her first leap, hoping she’d finally see him again that year.
All this waiting, filling the hours, treading water until the next time she saw Edward as she became more attached to him. Even her music room didn’t provide its usual timeless solace, though it surprised her with two valuable guitars she didn’t own in 2004, one originally belonging to founding Rolling Stones member Brian Jones, the other a 12-string Bowie had played on.
“Why would I get rid of these?” Oona mused to herself. “Charity donations, maybe?”
Each night she waited for a text message from Edward saying he was done with work and then rushed to his Kensington apartment. He smelled of smoke and fried potatoes and whiskey—which lingered even after he showered—but she didn’t mind the pungent combination because it mingled with his own earthy scent, which made her heady. No matter how tired he was after a shift, he was always eager for her body. He might fall asleep right after, wet hair soaking his pillow, but would wake up hungry for her again.
This is what I would’ve missed out on if I tried to change my fate. A year where I finally get to be happy.
One night in early February, Oona got a one A.M. text from Edward saying he was finishing up a poker game with his friends and heading home. She waited at his place for an hour, growing increasingly panicked, until he finally turned up at two-thirty, drunker than usual, disheveled, wild-eyed.
“Edward, what the fuck?”
“Oh, bugger.” He sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I thought I told you I was playing cards.” More sniffing.
She followed him into his apartment. “It looks like you’ve been doing more than that. Why didn’t you answer my texts? I was going nuts wondering what happened.”
“Bloody hell, do you have to be so clingy?”
“Do you have to be such an insensitive prick?”
The argument escalated and their voices rose until the downstairs neighbors banged on the ceiling. This snapped them out of it.
“I’m sorry, love.” Edward kissed her, sloppy and rough.
“I’m still mad at you.” But she went in for another kiss. Our first fight. How oddly romantic.
“Show me how mad,” he murmured.
Their makeup sex was insistent and explosive, tinged with remnants of anger.
Sex became a drug for Oona, a pheromone IV dripping a steady dose into her bloodstream. Her emotional fixation was obviously rooted in chemistry, but wasn’t all love chemical? It was science. And while the inevitability of next year’s divorce should’ve stirred caution in her, the expiration date made her want to experience all the love she could now, store it up for any lonely years that might follow.
There were two things she didn’t tell Edward about: the time travel and her wealth. He must’ve known she had some money (she had no day job and had a penchant for exorbitant tipping), but he might not have realized the extent of her riches. She wore clothes that eschewed trends—well-made and expensive, but simple—and she didn’t wear jewelry other than the watch from Dale or flaunt possessions that belied a grotesque or superficial relationship to money. There was only the house. He hadn’t yet seen her mansion, and apprehension at being treated differently when he did made her put off inviting him over, using home renovations as an excuse (to avoid lying, she had the living room recarpeted).
In March, Edward complained of his apartment’s lease expiring and a subsequent rent hike. With no sign of their passion lessening (that was a 2004 Oona problem), she suggested he move in with her.
“I haven’t even seen your place. Is it big enough for the both of us?”
She laughed and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“You’ll see.”
When he finally crossed the threshold into her foyer—which was the size of his living room—he laughed, too. And if the mansion impressed him, it didn’t come close to his look of stunned adoration the following morning, when she served him kippers on toast for breakfast and fixed his tea just as he liked it.
“How could you possibly know? You really are a wonder, Oona.”
The following month, Edward told her he had something special planned. Lou Reed was playing in concert that night, so it already promised to be a memorable evening.
I hope he doesn’t propose. Not yet. Not tonight.
He took her to a narrow Indian restaurant on Curry Row, its low ceiling strung with lights shaped like chili peppers and tinsel stars. They ate vindaloo and discussed Edward’s dreams of building a culinary empire. His enthusiasm was contagious, but she didn’t offer to be an investor; maybe keeping business out of their relationship would salvage it the following year.
After dinner, they went to the Bowery Ballroom. Oona had gotten tickets to the show months ago, but Edward secured VIP spots for them in the balcony. That was his “something special.” She was relieved and touched by the thoughtful gesture, though she would’ve preferred to arrive hours early and stand close to the stage.
Seeing Lou Reed was a religious experience for Oona. Though he performed only five Velvet Underground songs, she savored each one like a sermon. She pressed herself against the railing, wanting to sail over it and kneel beside the man on stage with the dark sunglasses strumming his guitar and speak-singing with a casual air of cool. Edward stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist. As much as she loved him, she wanted to shake herself free, to be alone in the crowd, to let the music engulf her. During “Candy Says” she wept, recalling how she and Dale listened to Velvets records in his basement, sometimes spread out like starfish on the rug with only their fingertips touching; other times on their sides, pressed together, legs entwined, kissing deeply. Kisses brimming with the blind optimism of first love.
After the concert, in the taxi home, Edward wanted to talk about the show, but Oona sat with her forehead pressed against the glass, eyes glossy with unshed tears, unable to say anything.
Though Madeleine was aware of Edward’s existence, Oona put off introducing the two. Even if her mother’s unspoken but obvious disapproval came later, it was easier to postpone it. But once May rolled around and they’d been living together for two months, there was only so much grumbling Oona could stand from Madeleine about never being invited over.
“All right, all right! Come by for dinner next week. Edward will make you shrimp fra diavolo.” Maybe cooking Madeleine’s favorite dish would ingratiate him to her. In case it didn’t, Oona also stocked up on her favorite pinot grigio.
Good food and wine took them only so far.
When Madeleine walked through the front door, Oona held her breath, waiting for something to go wrong.
“Mom, this is Edward.”
He stepped forward, arms out because Oona had told him her mom was a hugger.
But Madeleine held out a hand to shake instead, her smile lacking its usual exuberance.
This set the tone for the rest of the evening. No matter how much wine was poured, polite barriers stayed up and the conversation never adopted a natural flow, despite Oona’s frequent nudges to keep the chatter going.
When Edward left to use the bathroom, Oona turned to her mother and hissed, “What is the matter with you? Why are you behaving like a robot?”
Madeleine’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “I’m being perfectly nice.”
“That’s what’s so strange. Nice has no personality. You have personality. You’re nice, too, but why aren’t you sharing any of your stories or asking inappropriate questions or being too flirty or … being you?”
Madeleine put up her hands and pled ignorant. “I thought I was being me.”
“Why don’t you…” Like Edward? But he returned to the dining room in the middle of her question, so she softened her tone and course-corrected. “… let me get us another bottle of wine?”
“That would be lovely.”
Oh, if she never saw another sickly fake smile from her mother.
After Madeleine went home, as they cleared the table, Edward asked, “Did I say something to upset her? Was there a problem with the food?”
“The food was fantastic. You were fantastic.” She corked the last of the wine, resisting the temptation to guzzle it.
“Are you sure? Because I got the impression she didn’t like me. Maybe she thinks I’m not good enough for you. I sometimes wonder the same thing.”
His uneasy frown made her breath hitch. How dare Madeleine make him feel less than, unworthy. “Don’t say that. You’ve made me happier than I’ve been in years. You’re a great guy. And a phenomenal chef.”
“One who can’t even get his own restaurant off the ground. Who lets his girlfriend pay all the bills.” He set a stack of dirty plates back on the table and bowed his head.
“Hey, you will have your own restaurant one day. I keep telling you to cut your hours at the bistro so you can focus on that, because I believe in you. And I’m the one who refuses to let you pay the bills, remember?”
“You must let me contribute in some way, Oona. My parents didn’t raise me to take handouts, and I won’t allow myself to be a kept man.”
They settled on Edward’s buying and preparing food as his household contribution. He also pared down his work schedule, which allowed him time to write up a business plan, scout locations for his future restaurant, and meet with potential investors. Would he ask Oona to fund the venture? She hoped he’d wait until she offered; otherwise, it could put an immediate tarnish on their relationship and make her question if money was the root of Edward’s continued romantic interest.
In June, Madeleine got a boyfriend of her own: Nathan, a pharmacist at a small drugstore where she got her arthritis medication. Oona suggested a double date for them to get to know one another, but her mother said she preferred it be the three of them (“Nathan can be shy around new people”). Not the first time she’d excluded Edward, but Oona didn’t press the issue. Instead, she made lunch reservations for three at the River Café; with any luck, the stunning view of the Manhattan skyline across the Hudson would make up for any potential awkwardness.
It didn’t.
Madeleine and Nathan were a half hour late, by which time Oona had to bribe the hostess-slash-aspiring-model to keep their table, a mortifying exchange for both women. When the tardy couple finally arrived, Oona was irate and immediately suspicious at the sight of Nathan. Overgroomed was the first word that came to mind, from his slicked-back silver hair to his fake tan. The teeth were a little too white, the eyebrows too sculpted, the sides of his mustache and goatee too trimmed. Loud was the second word, from his purple shirt and pink tie—both silk—to his booming laugh to the cologne he’d doused himself with, which triggered a sneezing fit from the hostess. Once that subsided, there was another uncomfortable moment when she had to find him a suit jacket to wear because of the restaurant’s dress code. Madeleine was too captivated by the bouquets of flowers filling the front entrance to notice Nathan ogling the leggy hostess as she returned, but Oona noticed.
As he walked ahead of them, Oona turned to her mother. “I did tell you jackets were required for men.” A low singsong voice, teeth gritted.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Madeleine replied.
“Pretty sure I did.”
Things only got worse when they sat down.
After their orders were taken, a busboy filled their water glasses. When he got to Nathan, he tipped the pitcher too far and an errant ice cube landed beside his silverware.
“Perdóneme, perdóneme.” The busboy scooped the ice into his hand and hurried away.
“You think he’s running off in case I call immigration?” Nathan tore off a hunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth.
Madeleine gave her daughter a preemptive kick under the table, which did not deter Oona. “Did you really just say that?”
“This country is crowded enough with foreigners. There should be some stricter rules about who gets to stay here, that’s all I’m saying.”
Snap went Oona’s breadstick, which she kept breaking into smaller pieces. “And did your family come over on the Mayflower? Oh wait, those people were also foreigners.”
“I was only joking.” Nathan sat back and chuckled. “I like this one,” he said to Madeleine. “She’s a little spitfire, isn’t she?”
Both women pasted brittle smiles onto their faces, which they wore for the rest of the meal.
“Did you tell her about our trip?” Nathan asked during dessert.
“I didn’t.” Shifting in her chair, Madeleine took a long sip of coffee before answering. “We’re spending three weeks on the Amalfi Coast.”
“How wonderful.” Oona’s tone was flinty. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle all the foreigners?”
