Unravelled (4 page)

I unpacked last night while Blossom sniffed out a comfortable corner and collapsed – with an unsurprising loud fart – in it. I left him there while I soaked myself in the largest tub I’ve ever been in. I did feel a bit guilty for adding to global warming by using so much water, but my need to wash the day off me with as much water and bubbles as possible was stronger than my desire to save the planet. My feet started itching and my fingers looked like shrivelled-up prunes by the time I decided it was time to vacate the bathroom.

Wrapped in a soft big white towel, which reminded me of those lovely towels in a luxury hotel I stayed in once, I went on an exploration expedition. The cottage didn’t render anything particularly interesting, but I discovered a coffee machine in the kitchen that I know will become my best friend. Holding my towel with one hand (I can never keep a towel wrapped around my body, it always slips), I plodded through the living area and sank into a coffee-coloured couch and sighed with unbridled pleasure. This cottage was designed for optimum comfort and visual pleasure.

I played a bit with the remote control, but decided that I had enough adventures for one day when I pressed a button and the sound system came to life with top volume rap music. I got such a fright when the rapper told me he what he wanted to do with my unmentionables, that I pressed the top right hand button (in my experience, the universal on/off button) and called it a night. I made sure Blossom was still in the corner of my bedroom, but I shouldn’t have bothered. He hadn’t moved one inch. Poor darling must have been so tired from the day’s adventures. I didn’t even bother with pyjamas and got in bed with a happy sigh. Blossom responded to this with another kind of air escaping his bottom and I sighed an unhappy sigh before I fell into a dead slumber.

He woke me this morning when nature called him outside and I sleepily let him out after putting on an old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. This is one thing that not Erin, not Juan and not any boyfriend I ever had could convince me to change. I need to sleep comfortably and I will not compromise on my pyjamas.

It was the ferocious barking that made me stick my bed-head out the door to locate Blossom. He was standing at the fence in his I-want-to-make-friends posture with a
Chihuahua
working itself towards a stroke. Poor Blossom can’t count on animal behaviour analysis as one of his strong points – he was trying to make friends with the spawn of the devil. Bed-headed and dressed in my pj’s I then approached the scene to help Blossom cope with the inevitable rejection. It was at that moment that a vision of curlers and flowers came bearing down on us.

The
Chihuahua
inherited its piercing voice from its owner – if that is at all possible. Dressed in a floral house dress which did nothing for her autumn complexion, and purple-red hair wrapped around colourful curlers, she seemed a natural disaster in human form.

We’ve now spent a very unproductive five minutes with me trying to tell her that Blossom wants to make friends and her squealing at me to control the ‘beast’. Why everyone insists on bestowing upon Blossom adjectives fit for ogres in fairy tales is beyond me. Has no one seen Shrek? He’s an adorable ogre.

I watch with morbid fascination how the talking causes Mrs Flower’s third chin to have a ripple effect which seems to vibrate all the way down to the hem of her floral house dress.

It’s taken all this time for
Mr Wall Street
to cross the manicured lawn-slash-park. A concerted effort is required of me to not stare and drool over his oh-so-very-touchable naked torso. I’ve already seen him in a suit and that was enough to make my mouth water, but dressed like this? He makes me think thoughts I promised myself I would never think again. Thoughts that cause throb low in my body and warms me up. Judging by his wet hair, he must’ve jumped out of the shower to come to my rescue. I force my eyes up to look at his face and all throbbing disappear like mist in front of the sun. Sigh. From the look on his face I’m going to be the one needing rescuing.

“Get this animal away from my Fifi!” Fifi? How original. “That…that monster is going to kill her.”

“Good morning, Mrs Vaughn.” His voice is deep and sexy and directed at an old lady wearing a curtain, and this costs me having to pinch the tender flesh under my arm to refocus my wayward thoughts to ‘new me’ thoughts. “This monster is not going to kill anyone. Alexandra was just taking him inside.”

The pointed look I receive from Mr I-Charm-Old-Ladies makes me grab Blossom’s collar and head towards the cottage. I drag a resistant dog behind me wondering how I’ll ever be able to befriend Mr Wall Street,
Erin
’s friend, when all these bad moments keep popping up like unwanted pimples before a date.

Blossom eventually yields to my determined coaxing and follows me demurely to the cottage, looking as if he knows that he’s fuffed up once again. I hear Mr Wall Street calming his neighbour down and asking her all kinds of questions about her family. A real charmer.

Back at the cottage I wait for Blossom to irrigate a flower bed before heading in and praying that the coffee machine I saw last night comes with coffee. This is just too much action for me this time of the morning without the assistance of a god-given cup of caffeine-laced joe. I locate the coffee after opening all the cupboard doors and knocking over what looks like a crystal glass. The gods must have decided to give me at least one smile today because it didn’t break.

The coffee is brewing, filling the air with a wake-up aroma and I flop down in a kitchen chair. I close my eyes in an attempt to shut out this day that has descended on me too fast, but it comes stampeding back when a menacing knock at the glass sliding door makes it rattle all the way to its runners.

Mr Wall Street
doesn’t wait for me to open the door, but slides it open and stalks into my (technically his – but let’s not digress) humble abode. Maybe it’s the early hour of the day, maybe the lack of coffee or maybe it’s the onset of insanity, but as he advances towards me, the throbbing starts again and I can’t tear my eyes off his sculpted torso.

“I know you were trouble before I even stopped on the side of the road. Now you’re ruining my neighbour relations.” His growl sounds like a sensual purr to my befuddled mind as I struggle to control my breathing. I wonder what it would be like to have rub myself against all that delicious looking skin. From a far distance in my mind a little voice is shouting at me to remember the past and to remember my decision, but it’s very difficult to listen to this voice when Michelangelo’s David is towering over me and I can smell the fragrance of the soap he uses.

“Mmm…” is all I can manage as a response. I can hear Mr Wall Street in the background going on about something related to me needing a keeper, but I’m distracted by an intense attraction and that annoying little voice in my head reminding me about things I would rather forget. Surely my past would not repeat itself with Mr Wall Street? Maybe it would, but I’m sure the pleasure would make the inevitable pain that would follow worthwhile. Or not.

It’s the silence that strenuously pulls me back to reality. With a superhuman effort I drag my eyes up from his stomach, up his muscular chest and let it travel to his face. And there I find that look of consternation again. I sigh inwardly with sad self-acceptance and give him a half smile of insincere apology.

“Have you heard anything I said?” There’s that tone again. The one reserved for small children and old people. Good. This is just what I need to refresh my resolutions. The last two years have been peaceful, and starting something with this gorgeous man in front of me would only lead to lots of tears and cheap wine, but it’s so tempting to just go ahead and do it anyway.

I wet my lips and see his eyes drawn to my mouth before I shake my head and softly say, “No”.

“Would you like to do something about this?” On the this last word his index finger makes a few journeys from me to him and back indicating the desire sparking between us. I think. Self-preservation kicks in with the power of a Boeing engine and images flutter through my mind. Images of me in my house in the city eating rice cakes for two weeks because I was too depressed to go out and buy food, Erin ordering me to change my life, days spent in shops and salons becoming the ‘new me’. Stronger images float through my memory reminding me why the new me was created and that is stronger than any coffee to wake me up to reality.

I take a shaky breath, lift an eyebrow in defiance, but when I speak a Marilyn Monroe voice comes out of my mouth and I sound breathless with desire. Yet, I forge ahead hoping to kill the desire that my traitorous vocal chords make so clear.

“If you were the last breathing male on the planet and I was threatened with all kinds of torture which included decaf coffee, I would rather pull out my toenails that pursue any kind of anything with you.” My traitorous eyes are drawn again to his chest and I have to close my eyes to not lose my line of thought. My body is betraying me. I decide to play open cards with him. “As a matter of fact, I do find you easy to look at. It’s just that it would be… a disaster.”

In my desperation to make sure he understands, I think I put too much emphasis on that last word because he’s looking thunderous again. He takes a deep breath and I know I’m about to be blasted with an Arctic verbal gale force wind when Blossom – bless his Newfoundland heart – chooses this moment to come bounding in looking for affection. He slides to a stop between us on the Italian tiled floor like a baseball hero stealing base and unceremoniously throws himself belly-up on the floor, looking expectantly up at me with soulful eyes hoping for a belly scratch.

Mr Wall Street
swallows his retort, looks down at Blossom and then at me in total defeat before he throws his hands in the air. He closes his eyes as if looking for an answer to unanswerable questions and breathes deeply a few times. This gives me an opportunity to steal a few more glances at his very touchable biceps and chest. He opens his eyes and catches me staring at him, and shakes his head in a very hopeless kind of way. When he speaks it is with the same resigned tone of voice my mother and Erin have used on me. Numerous times.

“Be ready in an hour. You can go with me to the office and I’ll show you around.” He turns around and walks out, still shaking his head. I follow him to the sliding door, appreciating how his broad shoulders taper down to a well-muscled back. My gaze stops at his sports hero butt that could evoke envy even while sitting down. He must’ve sensed something because he stops and without looking around says, “You might say that you are not interested, but staring at my behind indicates differently.”

He turns around and burns me with a look so hot I can feel my blood bubble in my veins. I realise that I’ll have to break this spell or I’ll be back in a place I vowed I’d never go again. I plaster the biggest smile I can manage on my face and in the most innocent of voices say, “Just appreciating Mother Nature. It’s equal to appreciating a butterfly, a flower or a gorilla.” I say the last word pointedly, hoping to make it clear which category I consider him to be part of.

He turns around without replying and walks back to his mansion. I hear him grumbling and am sure words like “unfinished business” are included in his diatribe. I choose to believe it has to do with the festival and meetings, and is by no means related to what just happened. The one thing guaranteed to ruin my make-over – apart from myself, of course – is a man and I’ve been working too hard these last five months at the new me to allow an Adonis to reduce my resolutions to rubble. I heave a sigh as sad as the winter wind in the
Alps
and walk to the kitchen to get some help from my friend, the coffee machine. This is going to be a long seven weeks.

Chapter 4

It’s my third morning in this place and I’m on my way to work in my trusted car, Bomb. I had to take Bomb, because my friendly landlord did not offer me another ride to work this morning. Mr Wall Street did not appreciate waiting an hour and a half for me after the Blossom-neighbour incident Tuesday morning. I mean, it is not my fault that the mosquito-repellent cream and my hair gel tube have been packaged in similar tubes!

I wanted to fluff up my hair like Juan showed me, which includes using a very expensive hair gel I ‘had to have’. I reached for the gel tube, but I’m sad to admit that my thoughts had wandered back to
Mr Wall Street
’s chest and before you could say ‘bad hair day’, I had mosquito cream in my tresses. There was no way I could go into the office with mosquito repellent cream in my hair. The necessary quick hair wash that followed led to an inspiration to experiment with my new hair dryer which inevitably destroyed Mr Wall Street’s resolution to be nice to me.

He grumbled all the way to the office and I have a suspicion that it might have influenced the workspace allocated to me – I was given an office only a hair bigger than a matchbox and an assistant who would make most perfectionists look sloppy. It will be interesting to see how long my assistant lasts with me in the same microscopic office.

The first morning was a flurry of activity. As soon as we reached the building, Mr Wall Street walked to his office with strides bigger and faster than I thought humanly possible and little me trying to keep up in my very impractical, but fabulous, heels. We passed his secretary at whom he snarled to get Ray Sharpe, my assistant. A few awkward minutes later with me not knowing what to do with myself, Ray entered the office and gave me the once over. I know I passed muster because I wore an outfit Juan chose for me and I dutifully wore the whole thing all the way down to the shoes-slash-instruments-of-torture.