Fanfare (12 page)

He continued moving slower than molasses in January down the expressway. Cars zoomed all around us and hands flew out their windows, gesticulating inappropriately in our direction. If they only knew who was driving this P.O.S . My thoughts made me snicker quietly in my seat.

“Look, if I push the car and it falls apart, I have no idea how to fix it,” he admitted with a sheepish glance towards me.

“That would really be a travesty, wouldn’t it? Then you might actually have to buy a car that works!” I let out a silvery peal of laughter before continuing. “I do need the story on the ghetto-fabulous tint job. It really takes the fugification of this car to a whole new level!”

He chuckled at me merrily. “When I first came to L.A., no one recognized me, and it was completely fine driving around to the store or to get some coffee. About six months ago, things started to get a little dodgy. I was at a stoplight and this car full of girls noticed me. They started screaming and honking and tried to get me to pull over. I nearly had a bloody accident trying to get away. The next day I drove the car to the nearest garage and asked them to put the darkest tint they could on the windows. I think it might actually be illegal to have tint this dark.”

I smiled with irony as I considered his words. “You know, most guys would be flattered to get noticed like that by a bunch of girls. Instead, you freak out and try to hide behind tinted glass that would be the envy of a foreign dignitary.”

“Most guys. I was never that suave with the ladies.”

I laughed at his wide eyes and utter seriousness. “I doubt you have much trouble with the girls now.”

He pursed his lips together morosely and glanced at me with eyebrows raised to contradict my statement. “I still have trouble. One girl in particular. . . .”

I crinkled my nose at him and said nothing.

About forty-five minutes later, we pulled up to a large white building espousing modern architecture. Directly ahead of us were two iron doors that slid aside with a groan after Tom typed in a security code. We proceeded to enter a well-lit, subterranean garage and parked in a numbered spot sandwiched between a Maserati and a mean-looking BMW with blinding rims. The butterflies that had shaken from their cocoon after he kissed me in the car began to flutter frenetically in my stomach when he paused in front of the entrance to his apartment.

What was I thinking!?

He held open the door for me and grinned as I walked warily past him. The first thing I noticed was the way the sound of my shoes echoed loudly with each hesitant step I took into the darkness. Nothing cushioned the noise of the reverberations. I heard him shuffling behind me as he rolled my suitcase into the apartment and fumbled to turn on the light switch.

I gasped involuntarily at the sight before me. I heard him laugh to himself as he moved to stand nearby.

“You . . . have no furniture!” I whispered in shock.

“That’s not fair. I did buy a proper bed for the guest room since you were coming. It worked out well because I was forced to move the manky futon into my room. I still can’t bear to throw it away even though it’s utterly disgusting.”

“But . . . you don’t even have a real sofa! It’s just a bunch of cushions thrown on the floor!” I murmured.

“I told you before that I’m really minimalist. If I don’t need it, I don’t buy it.”

I frowned a bit.

“You look troubled. Why?” he asked with curiosity.

I thought for a moment before responding. “It’s not that I’m incapable of appreciating your perspective. I think it’s great that you’re so economical. I guess I’m troubled because . . . I want you to feel comfortable at home. Honestly, this isn’t really a home. It’s cold and empty. No wonder why you feel lonely here!”

He just stared at me with an unreadable expression on his face.

Crap, I must have pissed him off. “I wasn’t trying to insult your place, Tom. I just—”

“You didn’t insult me. I didn’t think you’d have such a strong reaction to my lack of stuff. I’m surprised that it would bother you so much.”

“I guess it’s because I always feel like home needs to be a sanctuary,” I said quickly as I tried to cover up the dismay that had settled onto my face at the sight of his empty “home.” It was so barren and joyless! “This is . . . not.”

He chuckled. “This isn’t really home for me. London is my home.”

I decided to change the subject because I was off to a horrendous start. Epic fail, Cristina. You walk into his house and all you can do is criticize his austerity. Thumbs up, dumbass!

“Well! What can we eat? I’m starving!” I stated with a huge smile. I was trying to save him as much as I was trying to save myself.

“Really. Tell me why it upsets you,” he persisted.

I exhaled loudly and thought I heard the sound resonate off every corner of the empty living room.

“Don’t laugh. If you insist on hearing my thoughts, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mock them. I was upset because . . . no one takes care of you here. Not even your house takes care of you.”

He smiled crookedly at me. “I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”

“You know what I mean. Everyone deserves to be taken care of on occasion.”

“Including you?” he queried.

“Don’t turn this around on me! You wanted to know what I was thinking. It looks like you’re consciously trying to prevent yourself from cultivating any roots here . . . like having an actual sofa.”

“Ouch. Is it that obvious?” he teased.

Not wanting the conversation to continue moving in an introspective direction, I shoved his shoulder jokingly. He caught my hand and swiftly pulled me into an embrace. My heart pounded in my eardrums. I breathed slowly as I buried my face into his shoulder and allowed the comfort of his scent to wash through me and banish the reactionary panic. I was determined not to freak out for any reason. We were past the point where it was excusable . . . and I didn’t want to be excused anymore.

“Thank you for caring,” he whispered.

I pulled my face away and smiled up at him. There was something I wanted to do, so I gritted my teeth and demanded that my mind cease its senseless mutterings as I allowed my heart to take tentative control for the first time in nearly a year. Slowly, I leaned forward and placed a small kiss on his chin. He inhaled sharply and, when I pulled away, I saw that his eyes were closed and the left side of his mouth was curved upward in contentment.

“You’re welcome,” I said unwaveringly. “Now . . . let’s figure out what we’re doing for dinner!”

He hesitated a moment. “We can go out someplace,” he suggested as he released me. The look on his face made me think that this was not his first choice.

“We can cook something, too,” I suggested.

“No. If I cook something you’ll likely never want to see me again . . . and I didn’t ask you to come visit so that you would cook for me.”

I laughed. “Takeout or delivery?”

“Delivery.” He smiled to himself and walked over to the kitchen to collect a bunch of takeout menus.

“Uh, Thomas . . . you have no table,” I stated wryly as I took a closer look around.

“Christ!” he said in mock frustration as he handed me the menus. “I’ll get a table before you come next time. I promise. Chairs, too.”

Unable to control the giddy child within at the thought of him already planning a future visit, I stuck out my tongue petulantly in his direction.

“God, that’s sexy,” he teased.

This was how I spent my first evening in Los Angeles with a movie star . . . eating Chinese food on the floor in pajamas and laughing until my sides hurt. Blissful and unpretentious . . . not at all what I would have expected. Tom never failed to surprise me.

After we finished eating, I walked over to one of the only things that took up space in the living room—a full keyboard that had been pushed up against the wall near the large flat screen TV sitting forlornly on the floor amidst a jumble of cords.

I switched on the keyboard and began running my fingers quickly across the keys in a scale and then transitioned into a series of arpeggios.

“I didn’t know you played piano,” Tom murmured as he pulled the rickety metal stool towards me.

“If I get tetanus from that thing, you’re in a lot of trouble,” I joked as I sat down carefully on the stool. He chuckled in response.

Feeling particularly confident, I launched into a movement of my father’s favorite piano work: Franz Liszt’s Piano Sonata in B Minor. Soon, I was absorbed as I remembered the way my father loved to sit on the sofa and listen to me play. He would close his eyes and nod in affirmation as the lyrical lines rose from the strings within our piano at my persistent prodding. I had never been a ridiculously good performer, but watching my Dad as he listened to me play would have caused the casual observer to believe that Emanuel Ax himself was the one eliciting music from the cold ivory keys. I had not played the piano since the day I held my father’s hand in the hospital and watched as he fell peacefully into a forever sleep. For some reason, I felt as though he would have found my choice to play at this moment appropriate.

As I finished the last series of soft, repetitive notes, I glanced up and smiled at Tom. He was sitting amongst the cushions thrown haphazardly on the floor with his mouth agape and his eyes unblinking.

“Oh, come on!” I said as I tried to hide the flush creeping into my skin. “I made tons of mistakes! Don’t stare at me like you’re amazed!”

He cleared his throat. “I can’t believe you never told me you played that well,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t important.”

“It’s important to me. How long have you been playing?” he asked.

“Since I was five. When I was in high school, I played fairly well . . . but I squandered the ability when I stopped practicing regularly. Now, I can only play slow pieces . . . I don’t have the technical aptitude to play anything seriously demanding. That’s why I chose the Andante Sostenuto.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what that means,” he said kindly.

“It’s my father’s favorite piece by Liszt. The movement is known as the Andante Sostenuto . . . it means . . . um . . . slow and sustained? I guess that’s the best translation I can come up with!” I giggled nervously. Tom still stared at me with glowing admiration.

“He must have loved you so much,” Tom replied with a smile.

“I loved him . . . so much,” I whispered as I grazed my hands slowly over the black keys. The tenor of their tones rising into the air was intentionally melancholy.

I stood up to walk over to the cluster of cushions where Tom was sitting and plopped down gracelessly into the hodgepodge. He stared reflectively at my face.

“I didn’t mean to go melancholy on you,” I said with a sad smile.

“You didn’t. I was just thinking about how unfair life can be.”

“How so?” I asked.

“You shamed me just now. I can see how much you love your father, and he was taken from you. My father is alive and well . . . and I haven’t spoken to him properly in over a year.”

I looked at him questioningly.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair while choosing his words. “I’ve always been really close to my sister Anne and my Mum. They’ve been really supportive of me. My father . . . is really critical. He thinks I have some kind of complex or something . . . like I need a crazy amount of attention just to be happy. It’s so far from the truth. I really feel passionate about acting. Whenever I see him, we argue constantly.” He exhaled in frustration. “I don’t know what to do about it . . . so I gave up about a year ago.”

I reached over and took his hand. “Not talking to him won’t help the situation,” I said as gently as possible.

He squeezed my hand and nodded simultaneously. “It’s not easy.”

“I hate to sound insensitive, but life in general is not easy. There was a lot about my father that ticked me off, but at the end of the day I always felt he knew how much I loved him. That’s all you can really do. Love earnestly . . . love fully . . . or not at all. ”

He leaned towards me and put his hand on my cheek. “Do you ever feel surprised that you still believe in the importance of love?”

I thought for a second. “No. Not at all. Love was never absent in my life . . . even in the darkest moments I never doubted its presence.” I smiled at the comparison forming in my mind. “One bad wine doesn’t mean all future wines are destined to taste awful.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor,” he teased huskily. I noticed that he was moving in closer as he positioned himself to sit crossed-legged in front of me.

My breath caught as he cautiously brushed my hair behind my shoulders and ran his fingertips down the side of my neck. I felt his thumb graze my chin with a feather-light caress. He inhaled as he leaned closer. A lock of his unruly hair fell onto his forehead, causing me to feel this involuntary desire to brush it back. I looked for a place on his head to put it, but the chaos there didn’t lend itself to this gesture, so I tried to ignore it.

“God, you smell fabulous,” he whispered.

I smiled as calmly as possible. “You do, too.” The air was growing warmer around us, and my senses shifted ostensibly to place all emphasis on the man sitting before me. His eyes narrowed slightly and a look of determination filled their grey depths as his hands rose once more to my face. “I want to kiss you.”

My heart leapt into my throat, and the panicked musings of my brain tried in vain to stop the yearning from coursing through my body. Enough was enough.

I reached up and took hold of the errant lock to put it back where I thought it might belong. The vision of me tangling my fingers in his soft hair caused my heart to palpitate erratically. I took a deep, steadying breath and softened my expression with the calming salve of resolute awareness.

“Then kiss me.”

He grinned in triumph before closing the gap between us. Stopping a hair’s breadth from my lips, he held my gaze with his piercing grey eyes. I could see that they were flecked with bits of green and gold, and the way they thoughtfully searched my face for any sign of resistance destroyed the last remaining doubt in my mind.

Without hesitation, I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to his. He was caught off guard by my kiss, and it took him a moment to regain his bearings. Tom’s lips were soft and careful as they began to move against mine with slow deliberation. He placed my lower lip between his, and his tongue brushed against it tentatively. His hands slid from my face to my neck, and my palms moved instinctively to his shoulders. When I parted my lips as the kisses grew more fervent, I felt him rise to his knees and clutch me against him. My arms clasped behind his neck as he lowered our forms onto the cushions surrounding us. My mind told me to stop this insanity before it progressed beyond the realm of reason, but his scent assailing my nostrils and his taste lingering on my lips would not allow it.