me?’ he said.
Now her mind beeped a warning more frantic than the copier had. All of the gossip she’d tried to ignore replayed in Claire’s head: The working trip Marie Two might be going on, the new business activity in the UK, Tina’s blow-by-blow about Michael Wainwright’s difficulties in lining up a woman for this latest escapade. She tried to see where the trap was, where humiliation was waiting. Perhaps he needed secretarial help. That must be it. She sighed with relief. Of course…
‘Can’t Tina help you?’ she asked.
‘Help me what?’ he asked in return.
‘With typing or…’
He laughed and Claire felt herself blush. He was laughing at her, and she had tried so hard to avoid that, to forget him, dismiss him, and yet…
‘Claire, I’d like you to spend a long weekend with me in London. Not for work. For fun. As my…guest.’
And then he put his left arm around her. She felt his hand warm—almost hot—through the clothes on her back and then he was pulling her toward him and he lifted her chin with his other hand and put his mouth on hers.
Claire was so surprised she didn’t have time to stiffen or think. It all had a dream-like quality, as if she was in some story she had read long ago— Snow White or Sleeping Beauty —one of those passive young women who waited for years for a kiss to awaken them. She could feel every tiny place of contact she had with him—each finger between her shoulder blades, his palm against her cheek, and his lips against her lips—as if her skin there had never been touched before. Her surprise fought with a surge of feeling both sensual and emotional.
When he moved away from her Claire was struck speechless. In a hundred fantasies she’d imagined—well, nothing as good as this. She literally held her breath and couldn’t—wouldn’t—say a word.
But after a brief pause, he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. She remained silent because she couldn’t make a sound. He took a step back and she could see that for a moment doubt rearranged his face. ‘I’d certainly understand if you thought that was inappropriate of me…’ He seemed to stumble for a moment, ‘…or if you feel it’s politically incorrect. Or even harassment. Please don’t. I mean we don’t actually work together. Just in the same place.’
Claire still couldn’t speak. By chance, her silence had allowed her to see a moment of Michael Wainwright’s uncertainty, a rare bit of, well, insecurity, or something that looked like it. Somehow it made him more alive, more accessible. Her eyes actually clouded. She had to blink.
‘Okay. Sorry. It just occurred to me that we might enjoy it. But whatever.’
Claire held onto the photocopy machine and tried to remember how to make her tongue capable of speech and her eyes capable of focusing. She was looking at Mr. Wonderful, but she was having trouble seeing him. Still, what she was most afraid of was that she wasn’t hearing him properly.
He had turned and was going to leave. Do something, she told herself. But where had this invitation come from? Why her? She remembered the conversation at lunch, the one she had tried not to listen to, and realized he had most likely run out of women available at short notice. ‘Wait,’ Claire heard herself say. He turned. ‘I’d really like to go,’ she told him.
Eight
‘Are you out of your friggin’ mind?’ Tina asked Claire the next morning, her voice shrill enough to be heard above the engine of the ferry and not only by Claire but by another dozen people sitting nearby.
Claire moved the yarn from the back of the needle to the front so that she could knit the next three stitches, then slipped them off her cable holder and onto the main needle. She knit those stitches to finish the back twist of the cable while calmly shaking her head at Tina. She would wear this lovely sweater in London.
‘For god’s sake, Claire. You don’t even know him.’ Tina crossed her arms in front of
Now her mind beeped a warning more frantic than the copier had. All of the gossip she’d tried to ignore replayed in Claire’s head: The working trip Marie Two might be going on, the new business activity in the UK, Tina’s blow-by-blow about Michael Wainwright’s difficulties in lining up a woman for this latest escapade. She tried to see where the trap was, where humiliation was waiting. Perhaps he needed secretarial help. That must be it. She sighed with relief. Of course…
‘Can’t Tina help you?’ she asked.
‘Help me what?’ he asked in return.
‘With typing or…’
He laughed and Claire felt herself blush. He was laughing at her, and she had tried so hard to avoid that, to forget him, dismiss him, and yet…
‘Claire, I’d like you to spend a long weekend with me in London. Not for work. For fun. As my…guest.’
And then he put his left arm around her. She felt his hand warm—almost hot—through the clothes on her back and then he was pulling her toward him and he lifted her chin with his other hand and put his mouth on hers.
Claire was so surprised she didn’t have time to stiffen or think. It all had a dream-like quality, as if she was in some story she had read long ago— Snow White or Sleeping Beauty —one of those passive young women who waited for years for a kiss to awaken them. She could feel every tiny place of contact she had with him—each finger between her shoulder blades, his palm against her cheek, and his lips against her lips—as if her skin there had never been touched before. Her surprise fought with a surge of feeling both sensual and emotional.
When he moved away from her Claire was struck speechless. In a hundred fantasies she’d imagined—well, nothing as good as this. She literally held her breath and couldn’t—wouldn’t—say a word.
But after a brief pause, he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. She remained silent because she couldn’t make a sound. He took a step back and she could see that for a moment doubt rearranged his face. ‘I’d certainly understand if you thought that was inappropriate of me…’ He seemed to stumble for a moment, ‘…or if you feel it’s politically incorrect. Or even harassment. Please don’t. I mean we don’t actually work together. Just in the same place.’
Claire still couldn’t speak. By chance, her silence had allowed her to see a moment of Michael Wainwright’s uncertainty, a rare bit of, well, insecurity, or something that looked like it. Somehow it made him more alive, more accessible. Her eyes actually clouded. She had to blink.
‘Okay. Sorry. It just occurred to me that we might enjoy it. But whatever.’
Claire held onto the photocopy machine and tried to remember how to make her tongue capable of speech and her eyes capable of focusing. She was looking at Mr. Wonderful, but she was having trouble seeing him. Still, what she was most afraid of was that she wasn’t hearing him properly.
He had turned and was going to leave. Do something, she told herself. But where had this invitation come from? Why her? She remembered the conversation at lunch, the one she had tried not to listen to, and realized he had most likely run out of women available at short notice. ‘Wait,’ Claire heard herself say. He turned. ‘I’d really like to go,’ she told him.
Eight
‘Are you out of your friggin’ mind?’ Tina asked Claire the next morning, her voice shrill enough to be heard above the engine of the ferry and not only by Claire but by another dozen people sitting nearby.
Claire moved the yarn from the back of the needle to the front so that she could knit the next three stitches, then slipped them off her cable holder and onto the main needle. She knit those stitches to finish the back twist of the cable while calmly shaking her head at Tina. She would wear this lovely sweater in London.
‘For god’s sake, Claire. You don’t even know him.’ Tina crossed her arms in front of
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