—
The first time I saw Mark I was on my way back from the toilets. I’d been hiding there trying to dodge a hedge-fund bore who’d gotten it into his head that my sporadic nodding coupled with determined crowd-searching somehow indicated interest. I’d had it on good information from a Spanish girl that Hedge Fund was still hanging around outside the ladies’ room entrance with a fresh drink, waiting for my return. So I took the opportunity to brush up on current affairs via my phone. I gave it ten minutes, then made a break for it. Hedge Fund was gone. Gone a-wooing some other lucky lady, no doubt. I made a beeline back to the bar, spotting the back of Caro’s dull golden dress through the crowd. She was speaking animatedly to someone. Then, as she twisted to the right, she revealed her talking partner.
I literally broke step. My body deciding, before my brain, that my presence would not be needed in their interaction. Caro was gorgeous, a tall confident amazon of a woman. The lines of her gold lamé dress skimming every curve of her body. She was clearly not wearing underwear. She looked like a glossy magazine perfume ad and this man was her magazine equal. He was perfect. Tall, substantial, he looked muscular without giving the impression that he worked out. Maybe he was a rower, or it could be tennis. Maybe he chopped trees down. Yes, he’d be very good at chopping trees down. I remember feeling an unnaturally strong desire to watch him do that. Short brown tousled hair. Slept in, but still just about business-appropriate. He smiled broadly at something I couldn’t quite hear, and Caro burst into laughter. I don’t know why but for some reason I sped up. I like to think my body took over, a cellular need. Anyway, I pulled myself to my full height without a clue what I would say when I got there and entirely not in control of my actions. His eyes caught mine at least ten steps away and took me in, his gaze doing a dance over me that I would come to recognize and yearn for the rest of my life. His gaze searching my face, tripping and darting from my eyes to my mouth, looking for me.
I’d had time to change before we left the shoot and had opted for a vintage jumpsuit in dusty pink and rose-gold cage shoes. It was my Faye Dunaway Network outfit, for emergency evening situations only. I looked good in it. I know this because men like Hedge Fund don’t go for personality.
Caro turns her head toward me, following the brown-haired man’s look. “Hey, honey! Where the hell have you been?” She beams at me, obviously happy with the effect we are both having. I feel a blush begin at my neck but I shut it down.
“Mark, this gorgeous creature is my friend Erin. She’s an artist. She makes documentaries. She’s a genius,” she coos, slipping her arm through mine in a surprisingly territorial way. It’s nice to be wanted.
“Erin, this is Mark. He works in the City, he enjoys collecting modern art. Although we’ve ascertained he’s not a fan of anything featuring Kalashnikovs or human fingernails. But aside from that, he has an open mind. Right?”
He smiles and extends a hand. “Lovely to meet you, Erin.”
Those eyes holding me, taking me in. I take his hand in mine, making sure to match his grip. I feel the whole of his warm hand wrapped around my fingers, which are still cool from the washroom.
I let him have a smile, let it spread across the corners of my lips and up to my eyes. I gave him some of myself.
“And you,” I reply.
I needed to know who he belonged to, if I could have him. Could I have him?
“Can I get anyone a drink?” I offer.
“Actually, hon, I’m just going to nip to the loos. Toilet relay. Back in a min,” Caro trills, and exits, leaving only a waft of rich perfume behind. She’s left him here for me. But then, I guess hot guys are ten a penny to the Caros of this world.
Mark loosens his tie slightly with his forefinger and thumb. Dark navy suit. Fuck.
“Drink, Mark?” I offer.
“Oh, God, no, sorry, let me.” Champagne is ordered with a nod and a wave. He gestures over to a nook and we sit down together at a low table. It turns out that he’s only just met Caro and he’s here alone. Well, he came with a friend named Richard.
“Who is talking to that lovely lady over there.” Mark points to a woman who is very clearly an escort. Latex knee-length boots and bored wandering eyes. Richard doesn’t seem to be too bothered by the lack of conversational input and appears to have the talking covered for both of them.
“Wow, okay. Interesting.” I was not expecting that. Wow.
Mark grins and nods and I completely fail to intercept my full-on snort of laughter. He laughs too.
“We’re very close, Richard and I,” he intones with mock solemnity. “He’s over for the day from a Swiss bank. I’m basically his minder. Or carer? Who knows. I just have to take him where he wants to go. Which is apparently…there. What sort of documentaries do you make?”
“At the moment, not many. But I’ve only just started, really. I’ve done a short on Norwegian fishermen. Like a kind of homage to Melville, it’s sort of Local Hero meets The Old Man and the Sea, you know?” I check to see if I’m boring him. He smiles and nods me on.
We talk for two hours straight, going through two bottles of Krug together, which I assumed he’d be covering, as the bill would be equivalent to a month’s rent in my flat. It flowed easily, the conversation and the champagne. In the moments where he smiled, my thigh would tense involuntarily.
Finally the spell breaks when Mark’s friend catches his eye from across the room and gestures that he and his lady friend are off. Having come to some kind of hard-fought agreement, one would imagine.
“On that magical note, I’m going to have to call it a night, I’m afraid.” Mark gets to his feet reluctantly.
“You have to see him back?” I stall. I don’t want to ask for his number; I want him to ask for mine.
“God no, that would be just…no, thank God. I’ll put them in a cab and my work is done. You?”
“Caro’s place is just around the corner. I’ll probably crash on her couch tonight.” I’ve done it before and in all honesty her sofa bed is far more comfortable than my bed.
“You’re North, though, right? Your place? Usually?” He’s stalling now too. Over his shoulder I see Richard, loitering passive-aggressively by the stairs. His date must already be up on street level being bored by passersby.
“Uh, yeah, North, Finsbury Park.” I’m not sure where this conversation is going now. We’re floundering.
He nods his head decisively. A decision made.
“Great. Um, okay, so long story short. I got this projector for Christmas from my sister and I’m really having a bit of a moment with it. I’ve got it shining onto this blank wall in my apartment. It’s pretty fucking epic. If you fancied it? I’ve got some documentaries. Long shot but I’ve been meaning to watch this four-hour doc on Nicolae Ceau?escu?”
I look at him. Is he joking? Ceau?escu? I really can’t tell. This might be the most brilliantly odd invitation I’ve ever received. I realize I haven’t answered him. But he continues to talk, not letting the air out of the situation just yet.
“Former dictator of Romania. Sang ‘L’Internationale’ at his own execution. Too dark? Probably. Fancy it? Pretty sexy stuff, right? He had his own tour bus. Well, Ceau?escu-bus.”
He hangs there for a second. He’s perfect.
“Amazing. That was amazing. I would actually love that. Sign me up.” I pull a freshly minted business card out of my clutch and hand it to him. It’s the third time I’ve done this since I picked them up from the stationers after graduating last month. But it looks well practiced. Fred Davey’s got one, Caro’s got one, and now Mark Roberts has one.
“I’m free next week. Let’s watch the four-hour Ceau?escu.”
And with that I disappear back into the heart of Annabel’s.
It takes all of my self-control not to look back over my shoulder before I turn the corner.