The Girl in the Box 01 - Alone (25 page)

“It’s a Warhol,” Rupert said, cocking a thumb over his shoulder at the frame, then following up the stairs in her wake and dropping into the same seat beside her. “At least, I think it is. I’m not really up with art. I bet you are.”

“Um, not really.” Samantha looked over her shoulder at the print briefly – it was small and she couldn’t really make it out from here – before turning back to her company. “Hey, do you want this?” she asked, lifting her glass and shaking it from side to side. “Or these?” she added, nudging the bowl of nuts.

Rupert blinked. “Full already?”

“No, no, just I’m being picked up in a moment. I got called by my – a, erm, friend.” Another flush of red rose to her cheeks, and Samantha felt herself burn at the embarrassment of the lie. Had he caught her hesitation? Fuck, probably he had. “We were supposed to meet up tonight and, um, I kind of forgot. Work and all.” And she laughed an awkward laugh that felt far too false. Probably felt about the same to Rupert.

Rupert shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“Thanks,” Samantha said with genuine relief. She flashed a quick grin, pushed the bowl and glass over to the man, and then let herself lower fully into the seat, unaware that she’d been tense. Then again, what was new?

For a minute or so there was only music. Samantha would glance toward the door – and then after no more than twenty seconds, she’d glance again. Still the weather did not slow. Good thing her phone had gone off when it had. Now that she knew she was leaving, she couldn’t wait to be back home.

“You never did answer my question, by the way.”

Samantha jerked very slightly and looked around. “Hm?”

“The song. I asked whether or not you like this kind of music.”

“Oh! Um, no, not really,” she confessed.

“Ah,” Rupert said. “Well, it’s not for everyone I suppose.”

“I suppose not.”

More quiet and more sidelong glances toward the door. How long had it been since Samantha had talked with her mum? Definitely not ten minutes yet. But it sure felt like it. And even if it had been, it would be more than ten minutes before her mother arrived, wouldn’t it? Because she’d have to get ready to go out – and that meant kitting out in her longest leather coat, digging out the umbrella, telling Imogen to be good –

“Quiet tonight,” Rupert said, cutting through her thoughts.

“Little bit.” And awkward now, too. God, he probably thought Samantha had begged her caller for a lift to get away from him. The creepy bar guy who’d started talking, bought her some peanuts and now, with no one else to talk to and no place to go unless he dared venturing out in the rain, was stuck forcing uncomfortable conversation with a girl who didn’t seem to be particularly interested.
Christ, Samantha, you could at least be a
little
more outgoing. Just so he doesn’t feel quite so stung.

She opened her mouth to force something, force
anything
– and from outside a horn blared once, twice, and then fell silent.

Rupert glanced over. “That’ll be your ride, huh?”

“Yeah,” Samantha said, slipping out of her seat and tucking her folder back in under her arm. “See you around.”

“See you ‘round.”

She reached the door in what was probably record time, extended a hand and grabbed the handle – and just for the slightest of instants, she paused. To say something, to cock her head back over her shoulder and just
thank
him, for the peanuts or the music or the impressively stilted conversation – anything whatsoever just to make him feel better for having come up to speak with her in the first place. And she
was
thankful, sort of, even if given the choice she’d’ve preferred him not to have bothered. Because he had at least made a nice gesture. And if it had been her, she knew that she’d be kicking herself and feeling like a social klutz for weeks.

But then the moment passed, and she pushed through the door and disappeared.

5

Rupert watched Samantha go, hoping that she might maybe turn around and come back and jot down her number or email – but she slipped off her chair, said her goodbye and then slipped out onto the street with not a detectable pause. For a couple of seconds the drumbeat of raindrops joined the bass line of the music, before the door swung shut and it was drowned out.

Two dozen seconds went by, Rupert waiting, straining his ears over the track as it, too, petered out – and then he heard, faintly, the sound of a car pulling away from the kerb and disappearing down the street. Once he was unable to detect even a hint of its noise, he raised his glass of cider, took a few long swigs and set it back down with a shrug. Oh well, at least he had tried.

Moving across the empty bar to the jukebox, he resumed fingering through menus, adding tracks to his dwindling playlist. At one point he cast a look over his shoulder, just to see if maybe Samantha might step back inside and the night might begin again – but, of course, she did not.

SAMANTHA’S PROMISE

Nicholas J. Ambrose

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