A Song For Julia Part 15

Not sure whether I liked early or late better. I guess Barrett was eager. I could hear him in the common room, his rich Eton tones contrasting with Jemi's clipped, more formal accent. I couldn't tell what they were talking about, but the words went on and on, and it made me wonder if I could somehow subst.i.tute her for me tonight.

I sighed and looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale, with brownish-blonde hair, and frazzled as h.e.l.l. Jemi was dark skinned, with black hair, and was always, always composed. Somehow I thought Barrett would notice the difference.

I sighed. I might as well get this over with. I threw my makeup back in my bag and opened the door. "Ready. Sorry for making you wait."

Barrett, sitting on the couch next to Jemi, stood up and smiled. "Julia. It's very nice to see you." He was wearing what looked suspiciously like an Armani suit and tie. My instincts about dressing up were on target.

I returned the smile, but I wasn't feeling it. "You too. I see you've met my suitemate."

Jemi stood too. She said, "We were just chatting about experiences in common. Barrett spent three years in Delhi."

"Oh," I said. "You guys must have a lot in common, then." See how subtle I can be?

Barrett politely coughed into his hand and then said, "Shall we go?" He extended his arm, and I put my hand around it.

Behind him, Jemi motioned with her hand, putting it to her ear as if it were a phone. She was signaling me to call if I was going to be late. After my nap, she'd explained the system our roommates had worked out to make sure we were safe if one of them were out on a date.

It shouldn't have been necessary, but during our soph.o.m.ore year, one of the juniors on the floor above us was raped by her date during a party upstairs. All of us were pretty freaked after. n.o.body talked about things like that happening here.

I nodded at Jemi, to let her know I understood, and followed Barrett out.

Okay. First problem. He'd brought a car ... and driver. Or bodyguard maybe. I don't know which. It was handy, but necessary? I don't know. It felt like too much. It felt like my old life, the life I'd really wanted to leave behind when I left Washington after that hideous, traumatic year. Sometimes lately, I felt like I'd be happiest forgetting the whole planned grad school existence, instead maybe get a job teaching or running a small business somewhere, get a tiny little apartment in Brookline and take the T to work. Lose myself, lose my past; lose my family and their utter domination of my life.

The easy laughter sitting around the breakfast table with Crank's family that morning made me homesick for a life I'd never had.

So, we went to L'espalier. If you've never eaten there, know that it's an excessively posh French restaurant on Gloucester Street. The kind of place where bodyguards and drivers aren't out of place at all, where you might run into Brad Pitt or George Clooney or Governor Romney sitting over an overly expensive plate of roasted pheasant. The kind of place I avoided like the plague. Not that I was celebrity enough for anyone to care about my presence, unless it was for a small time vicious gossip like Maria Clawson. But it always made me a little sick inside to walk past homeless men on the street to get into a place like this.

Barrett had reservations, of course. We took our seats at one of the small tables covered in a white linen tablecloth. The place was packed, but eerily hushed, couples sitting at their tables speaking in near whispers as the waiters whisked about the place.

We started with small talk. His schools, my schools. He was in town on business, and went on interminably about his father's bank, and the bank here, and interest rates and trading futures-and I completely lost interest. Which is kind of funny, considering I was majoring in international business, and this was all familiar territory. Familiar, but supremely uninteresting.

At one point he was perceptive enough to realize that I wasn't really interested, because he said, "Are you all right?"

I was startled. We'd just finished the second course, and I said, "Yes, I'm sorry, I'm fine. I didn't get much sleep last night, I'm afraid I zoned out there for a minute."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I wasn't being very nice. Barrett had obviously gone to some significant trouble for this date. I don't know exactly what he was hoping for. I mean, he was attractive enough, no question there. But I just ... really wasn't all that interested. When he first called me, I thought he was going to ask me out for coffee. Not a three hundred dollar dinner. This was the kind of place you took someone to propose, not a first date.

Just as we were finishing dessert, and he was paying the check, he said, "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Our talk on the train piqued my curiosity, so I looked up Harry Easton. Do you know he's in the United States as well?"

I swallowed and took a drink of water. My dinner suddenly felt like lead in my stomach. "Oh?" I asked, trying to keep my voice natural.

"Yes, he's a junior attache at Her Majesty's Consulate in New York. He sounded quite surprised to hear from me."

"I can only imagine," I said, trying my hardest not to vomit all over the remains of our desserts. I set down my gla.s.s because my hand was shaking, and I couldn't stop it. I put my hands in my lap, gripping them into fists.

"He told me to tell you he missed you," Barrett said.

"You told him that you knew me," I said, my voice flat.

"Well, of course. You two were old schoolmates after all."

I looked over at the wall, my eye tracing the fine moldings that ran up the corner to the ceiling. I didn't think about Harry. Ever, if I could avoid it. I certainly didn't want to have any contact with him, ever again. I wondered if this was what Sean felt like, unable to look people in the eye.

"I wish you hadn't done that," I said, keeping my voice low and calm.

"Oh, no," he said. "Was there some bad blood? I wasn't aware, he seemed delighted to hear you were doing well."

I swallowed, then looked at him and told a bald-faced lie. "We didn't know each other that well, I'm a lot younger than he is."

He looked doubtful but chose not to pursue it. I really, really wanted to go home. The thought of Barrett discussing me with Harry all these years later? It was making me physically ill.

"Excuse me for a moment," I said. "I need to freshen up."

I stood abruptly and walked toward the back of the dining room, then to the restrooms. Inside, I sat down, arms wrapped around my stomach and squeezed my eyes shut.

Harry Easton was my first love, but that wasn't why I reacted this way. There was no feeling of that kind left. None at all. Nothing but revulsion and ... fear? I tried to avoid it and not think about it. But it was true. Even after all these years, I was still terrified of him.

I was only fourteen when I met Harry. I was a little girl. A very sheltered little girl. Until we went to Beijing, I'd never had a reason to distrust. Or fear. Or hate.

Now I felt all of those things. All because of Harry.

I was not going to cry. I was not going to let him ruin anything in my life, ever again.

I took a deep breath to steady myself and stood. The girl in the mirror wasn't a scared, tiny fourteen-year-old girl. The woman in the mirror was twenty-two, valedictorian at one of the best high schools in America, a top student at Harvard University, and no one, not Harry Easton, not my mother, not anyone, was ever going to push me around like that again.

Okay. I was calm. It didn't matter what Barrett had said to Harry, or what he hadn't said. I was done thinking about that a.s.shole.

So, I was feeling much better when I went back out. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be going out with Barrett again. Simply because he'd bored me to tears. But I would be pleasant and try to enjoy myself for the rest of the night, anyway.

"Sorry about that," I said, taking my seat again.

"Feeling all right?"

"I am."

"Are you up to some music? There's a local band I've heard good things about, it's close by."

"Okay, that sounds good."

Barrett was gentlemanly to a fault and helped me into my wrap as we went out. By the time we got to the door, his driver was pulling up. So we slid into the backseat and rode the few blocks to The Lansdowne.

"Have you been here before?" he asked.

"Yes, quite a lot," I said. "Sometimes the music is. .h.i.t and miss. They've booked some pretty bad bands here occasionally."

"Ah, you're a music connoisseur."

"I'm a complete sn.o.b when it comes to music," I said.

"But not about other things, I hope." He was smiling gently as he spoke, and he had a look in his eye that told me he was still hoping to score. I needed to wean him off that idea. Because it was not going to happen.

Five minutes later we were inside, after he got us past the line by means of a sizable bribe to the doorman. And it became very clear, very quickly, that the booking agent at Lansdowne had picked the wrong band. The singer was off-key, the guitarist kept fumbling his chords, and the drummer was out of sync. I tolerated it through my first drink and three songs, when even Barrett was wincing.

"Let's go next door!" I said over the cacophony.

He nodded, and I led him to the opening that led into Bill's Bar & Lounge, which joined The Lansdowne on the inside. Bill's was a tighter s.p.a.ce, with a younger, more alternative crowd, and friendly to punk bands, among others. We slowly made our way through the crowd, scanning for a table, when I saw a familiar face over someone's shoulder.

I should have thought first, but I didn't. I called out his name, because I was happy to see him. "Crank!"

The guy in front of Crank shifted a little, and Barrett squeezed in next to me.

Crank was standing there, a stupid smile on his face. A girl, who looked about four feet tall if it wasn't for her s.l.u.tty heels, was wrapped around him, a hand jammed into his pocket. She was showing more skin than clothes. Oh, dear G.o.d, why did I say anything?

"Julia," he said, his eyes widening. Both of the guys standing with them turned their heads so suddenly I'm surprised they didn't hurt themselves. The darker skinned one, who I recognized immediately as Morbid Obesity's drummer, said, "Julia?" loud enough that I could just barely hear it.

Barrett wrapped his arm around my waist in a way that was way too possessive for a first date.

I stood there awkwardly for a second and then the short redheaded wh.o.r.e said, "Who's your friend, Crank?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, rushing words into the awkward s.p.a.ce. "Barrett, this is Crank Wilson. Crank, this is Barrett ... um ... Barrett ..."

Oh, G.o.d. I'd forgotten his last name? I squeezed my eyes shut in embarra.s.sment.

"Barrett Randall," he said, and I could hear his teeth were clenched as he spoke.

"This is Mark and Pathin," Crank said. "Mark, Pathin, meet Julia."

Mark I'd met in Washington, very briefly.

Pathin held his hand out. "You must be the infamous Julia. It's a pleasure to meet you. Anyone who can get Crank writing songs like that, I like."

I took his hand, stunned by his words. What had Crank told them? "It's nice to meet you," I said.

The girl said, "Crank, aren't you going to introduce me?"

Crank looked mystified. "I hadn't planned to," he said.

Her mouth opened wide. She yanked her hand out of his pocket and shouted, "I was right. You are such a p.r.i.c.k!"

She turned and tottered off. That was a d.i.c.k move. But at the same time? I was thrilled he'd blown the girl off. Something was seriously wrong with me. Just a moment ago, I'd thought of her with the term wh.o.r.e. What the h.e.l.l? I never, ever used that word. I'd had it thrown at me too often, too casually, to ever say it or even think it of another woman. But something in me s.n.a.t.c.hed that word right out of the recesses of my mind. I felt ashamed of myself. Where did that come from? It was only a week ago I'd invited him to come back to my parents' condo in Bethesda. Who was I to judge that girl?

A nagging voice in the back of my head told me I was already getting too wrapped up in this guy. I needed some breathing room, right now. Starting with the arm Barrett had clamped around my waist. I reached down with my right hand and peeled him off of me.

"Having a good date?" Crank asked. His jaw worked when he asked the question, and his eyes were intense. Angry. I don't know what right he thought he had to be angry with me. It's not like he hadn't been standing with that girl, who was about to give him a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b right here in the bar.

"Yes, and you? I didn't realize you had a date tonight," I replied, with more than an edge in my tone. He'd asked me out tonight. To play piano. But he hadn't wasted any time finding some girl to hang out with instead. I had absolutely no reason to feel this way. He wasn't mine. We weren't together. We weren't anything. I didn't want to be anything. But I was p.i.s.sed, anyway.

Mark helpfully said, "That's no date. That's Alicia, the walking disaster. You just saved us from another horrible scene in the morning."

Another horrible scene in the morning? I looked at Crank, a little incredulous. Jesus, he was such an a.s.s. I don't know what I was thinking or feeling, but I knew I was being inexcusably rude to Barrett. So I opened my mouth and said the first thing that came to my brain-never a smart idea and definitely not in this case, because the words that came out were, "Oh, I'm sure he'll find some other girl to score with. Right, Crank?"

Mark and Pathin both winced, and Crank's eyes narrowed in anger.

"Gotta go, guys. Nice to see you," I said. I grabbed Barrett's arm. "Let's go?"

"Certainly," he said. He nodded to Crank and the guys and turned to walk away.

Crank reached out and touched my arm. "Julia? Can I have just a minute?"

I froze. Barrett looked very annoyed. Frustrated and annoyed. But you know what? He didn't own me, and I didn't ask him to go spend all that money on dinner. He could just cool his heels for a couple minutes.

"Sure. Barrett? I'll be just a second."

So, I followed Crank away from the other three, about twenty feet down the bar, where we squeezed in between two columns near the wall.

"Why are you angry with me?" he asked.

"I'm not angry with you," I said, clenching my teeth. "Why would I be angry?"

"I don't know. But you're sure acting like it," he replied.

"You were giving me some pretty nasty looks back there, too."

He looked up, his eyes darting to Barrett, then back to me, down to my lips, then back to my eyes. He held them, his face tense, then his eyes dropped back down to my lips.

For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't have any reason to be ... anything."

I took a deep breath. "What are we doing?"

"You look wicked hot in that dress. Good enough to eat."

I gasped and looked up at his eyes. Dreamy eyes. Eyes that could drive me out of control in a second. Quieter now, my voice unsure, I said, "What do you want from me, Crank?"

He gritted his teeth, and I saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "I want to know what you look like with that dress off. I want to take you home with me and tear it off and make love to you until you scream."

He smirked a little. Like he was making fun of me. Then said, "I want to make music together."

I was hyperventilating. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. Did he really just say that? My lips parted, but I didn't-couldn't-say anything.

His eyes traced along my lips, and I bit my lower lip, because I was on the verge of doing something crazy.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked.

"Losing control," I replied.

"Sometimes losing control can be wicked awesome," he said.