I Knew You'd Be Lovely (2 page)

As soon as he slammed the cab door, snowflakes began to speckle his head and coat.
One hour
, he said to himself, looking at his watch. His sole reason for coming to this party, given by a friend of a friend of a friend, was the affection and respect he held for Oscar. Oscar, whom he often thought of as irrational exuberance incarnate, also happened to be his financial advisor, and had stopped just
short of bribery to enlist him. So against his better judgment he'd agreed to make an appearance.

On the eleventh floor, even before the elevator doors opened, he could hear the noise of the party. In the invitation, the music had been described, mystifyingly, as “post-funk sexycore yacht rock.” At the end of a short hallway stood a tall blonde in a red sweater.

“Well, hello!” she said. “Do come in.” Bradley knew that in spite of his bookish exterior he was, generally speaking, easy on the eyes. He followed her into the foyer. She was wearing black velvet pants, the tops of which were covered in bright red fuzz, as if her sweater were molting.

“You can put your coat in the back bedroom,” she said close to his ear, in a party shout-whisper. She gestured, and for as far as the eye could see men and women bedecked in jewels and bow ties were sipping translucent drinks. They all looked to be in their mid- to late thirties. “I'm Evelyn, by the way,” she said, extending her hand. “Kiki's sister.”

“Bradley. Pleasure.”

“Oh, you're English!” she said. Bradley smiled and excused himself. After placing his gift of Champagne on the only unoccupied countertop space, he deposited his overcoat in the bedroom, then began navigating his way back to the living room—
Excuse me, so sorry, beg your pardon
. In front of a large bay window overlooking the park stood a table blanketed with an array of foods. Each dish had a little calligraphied label: rosemary-rubbed chicken tenders, French ham and aged cheddar biscuits,
duck-stuffed ravioli, truffle-kissed mini-pizzas. There was a gigantic chocolate torte in the center, which the host's uncle—he overheard an enthusiastic guest remark—had made by hand.

He pulled a china plate from the stack and would have begun to help himself but for the brunette standing in his way with her back to him. Not wishing to be rude, he waited for her to move, or turn sideways, or in some way reposition herself. Finally, he tapped her shoulder.

“Trying to decide what looks best?” he said. “It's all right if you sample them all. I won't tell.”

The woman smiled and said nothing. Her eyes were smoky brown, and her hair was held back with two tortoiseshell combs. She continued to stand silently for a second before he noticed the clipboard hanging from her neck by a piece of brown packaging string.

I can't speak
, it said at the top of a sheet of paper.
I have laryngitis
.

“Terribly sorry,” he said. “I didn't realize.”

The woman took up her clipboard and wrote with a pen tied to the end of the string:
No need to apologize
. Her handwriting was pretty, rounded and small. Bradley reached for the pen—
May I?
his raised eyebrows asked—and she let him have the clipboard. The fact that she was writing made him want to write. Monkey see, monkey do.

Shouldn't you be home drinking tea with honey?
he scrawled, his left-handed cursive barely legible.

Please, no more tea
, she wrote back.
No voice for 9 days. You realize how much tea that is?

9 days?
he wrote.
Perhaps you should see a doctor!
He handed her the pad.

I am a doctor
, she said, and he blinked. She resumed writing.
What's your name?

“Bradley,” he said out loud, his voice awkward and unfamiliar to his own ear.

She nodded and turned away. She was wearing a strapless black dress and had a simple mother-of-pearl bracelet clasped about her writing wrist. But by far her most striking feature was her neck—long, bone white, flawless. Who knew what a throat like that might be capable of saying, if only it worked. She turned quickly and caught him staring at her. Taking the clipboard, she flipped to the final page, which was covered with prewritten words and phrases:

She pointed to the first word.

“Well, hello there, Samantha,” he said, offering his hand. He indicated the last entry,
HUMAN BEINGS ARE SO PREDICTABLE
, and gave her a quizzical look.

We say the same things over and over
, she wrote.

Love never repeats
, Bradley thought, but couldn't
remember where he'd read the phrase, and thought it best not to speak of love. “With so many words to choose from, you'd think we wouldn't perpetually use the same ones,” he said in her ear, but with the noise of the party all around them, he couldn't tell if he was speaking inaudibly or assaulting her eardrum. Samantha apparently couldn't make out what he'd said; she moved closer to his mouth. Her head smelled powdery, like vanilla. Her ear was less than an inch from his lips; he could have kissed it if he'd wanted to. He repeated himself.

She nodded.
There used to be far fewer words, in primitive cultures. Past civilizations counted 1, 2, many
. She looked up at him.
Kind of how I calculate drinks
, she wrote.

“I assume you were a hieroglyphics major before you turned premed?” he said, wondering where the drinks were.

Art history. Premed = after college (late bloomer). You?

Studied botany. Now botanist
.

As soon as she read this, Samantha stamped her foot, grabbed the pen, and began writing excitedly. She had a lot more enthusiasm than you'd think just from looking at her.

You help me!
her clipboard proclaimed.
I furniture shopping, comparing diff. types wood. Salesman said pine = lots knots, oak = smoother grain, but couldn't say why
.

“Why?” Bradley said.

Why
, she wrote again, and as he read the word, she leaned in to underline it.
Why
.

“Well, a pine branches in tiers, all the way up, whereas an oak sort of grows and then blooms at the top. A knot is where a branch meets the trunk,” he said. “Like a shoulder,” he added, touching two fingers to her collarbone.

Samantha's lips parted.
You have cast yourself as the bearer of wisdom
, she wrote, which made Bradley think:
If I'm the bearer of wisdom here, darling, we're both in a bucket of trouble
. “You might think less of me if you knew that earlier today it took all my wit and cunning to open a jar of pickles,” he said, and her svelte torso jostled, but she made no sound.

Half an hour later, the air was hotter, the music louder, and the room more crowded. The party had become its own throbbing cocoon. Bradley and Samantha still stood in the center of the living room, passing the clipboard back and forth, only now they were also juggling colossal martinis. At one point a passerby had observed their antics and shouted: “Get a blackboard, you two!” Bradley was having a surprisingly good time. Sharing the clipboard with Samantha gave him a sense of stillness within the swirl of the party; it was like being in the eye of a storm, like being plugged in to the same iPod. Best of all, it made him feel as if the unspoken in him were connecting with the unspoken in her, and it crossed his mind that this was all chemistry ever was: two people's silent selves invisibly aligning while their noisy selves carried on, oblivious.

Samantha swallowed the last of her drink and wrote,
What made you leave the UK?

“I came here about two years ago,” he said. “Two years this past October.”

Not
when
.
Why?

“Oh, well, my personal circumstances changed,” he said, and she looked at him as if he'd said he'd contracted a deadly disease. He finished his martini.
What the hell
. “My wife and I split,” he said, and attempted to see if the playfulness had left her eyes. But Samantha was looking down, writing.

Why?
Apparently a favorite question.

Bradley stared at the word. “Don't I at least get to refresh my drink before I answer that one?”

She nodded.
Go + get us a couple drinks, pls?

On his way to the bar, he found himself imagining Samantha lying on his bed, her hair fanned out, her silence filling the air like humidity. While he waited to get the bartender's attention, he envisioned them having fantastic sex. “Kiss me when you're going to come,” he would say, and later, she would—her long neck lifting in the kiss that said it all.

The music's bass notes were drumming through his very person. “I feel like my pancreas is vibrating!” he shouted in the direction of the bartender, trying to be friendly. But the compact man just stared at him as if he were an affront to the world's efficiency. “Two,” Bradley mouthed, holding up his fingers in a V.

“How'd you lose your voice?” he said, handing Samantha her third martini.

Marlboro reds. 2 packs/day
.

“That's an interesting habit for a physician.”

She grinned.
Kidding!
she wrote.
I'm pulmonary specialist. Tell patients smoking = suicide for procrastinators. Had flu 2 days then woke up—no voice. Now tell why you + wife split
.

“You don't give up easily, do you?” he said. He realized he was already a good bit drunk. “My ex-wife claims I'm no good at sharing my inner life.”

Samantha's face still gave the faint impression of a smile, even though she was no longer smiling.

Is she right?

“I suppose she is,” he said. During one of their quieter fights, Gail had accused him of having the communication skills of an elm. “You can't always expect people to read your mind,” she said. “It isn't fair.”

Makes for a lonely life
, Samantha wrote.

“It's a fruitless task, explaining yourself,” he said. He was enjoying confessing the truth for once. “Either people get you, or they don't. In fact, even when they get you, it's always …”
Partial
, he wanted to say.
Imperfect. A disappointment
.

You may never be 100% understood. I'd settle for 55%. But you shouldn't be afraid to speak your heart. Not to a woman you love
.

She gave him a serious look, and he sensed a clinical aspect to her. His floaty, liberated feeling was being undermined by a light panic, as though something old in him were dueling with something new. He noticed she'd begun glancing around as if she were expecting someone. Or searching for an opportunity to escape. He was losing her.

In a large room off to the left, the hosts had hung a
seventies-style disco ball. The DJ was still spinning, and Bradley was weighing the merits of inviting Samantha to dance when a sweaty man in a cummerbund came jogging backward and barreled into him. Bradley stumbled and spilled his entire drink down the front of Samantha's dress. Her throat made a croaky, voiceless gasp.

“Oh, God! I'm so sorry. Let me get you a washcloth. Hold on, I'll be right back,” he said. Samantha had begun to write a reply, but he didn't stay to read it.

When Bradley returned from the kitchen with a hand towel and a bottle of seltzer, Samantha was gone. His pulse quickened. He scanned the room, but she was nowhere.

Wait a minute—there she was, over in the corner. Someone else was already attending to her—two men, in fact—and she was touching their arms, and laughing, and stamping her foot, just as she had with him. Of course. Why not? Hadn't it only been in his head, the sense of unique connection? What made him assume she shared it? It was clear to him now that her curious enthusiasm existed quite independently of him. It was simply who she was.

Perhaps because of the cold, the other partygoers were neglecting the terrace, a slender consolation. He closed the sliding glass door and stood alone under the falling snow. Without calculating the time in Islington, he took out his mobile.

She picked up on the fifth ring. “Gail, hi, it's me, it's Bradley,” he said. He was speaking quickly, trying not to overthink. He was desperate to recapture the liberated feeling. “Listen, I …” What meaningful thing could he possibly
say to her now? He stared through the condensation-coated glass at the revelers. He knew they were only a few meters away, but it felt as if the distance between him and them were greater than the distance to the moon.

“I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you wanted,” he said.

Gail didn't yell at him for waking her up. She didn't say: “Oh, God, Bradley,” or “Are you drunk?” She wasn't dramatic like that; it wasn't her style. That was one of the things he'd loved best about her.

“What is it you think I wanted, Bee?” she said. She hadn't used his nickname in a long while; it hurt to hear it. Bradley closed his eyes. Of all the people in the world, Gail had probably understood him best.

“I wanted
you
, that's all,” she said.

He could barely keep his thoughts straight, but he knew it had all gone wrong somehow. “I don't know what to do,” he said.

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“I feel lost in this world,” he whispered.

Gail was silent for a moment. “It isn't altogether impossible, you know.”

“What isn't?”

“To trust people.” Her voice sounded surprisingly calm, even beautiful. For one wild instant, he thought about asking:
Is it too late for us?
But he knew it was.