56 Days by Catherine Ryan Howard

53 Days Ago

Him not being there, not waiting for her outside his office building as arranged, is not the worst-case scenario. The worst-case scenario is him not being there but somewhere else that offers a view of that spot, from where he can watch her waiting for him like a fool. To avoid this, Ciara arrives twenty minutes early and buys a coffee in the Starbucks just around the corner, which she sips at one of their outdoor tables with her eye on the time. When it gets to the half-hour, she waits a minute more before leaving, crunching on a chalky mint to ward off coffee breath.

He is the first thing she sees when she turns on to the main street. There, where he said he’d be, waiting for her.

Relief floods her veins.

He turns and waves. She waves back, doing her best to look like she’s dashed here straight from the office.

He is dressed as he was on Friday; men’s suits are indistinguishable to her, for the most part, but it could be a different one. The tie is a different color, anyway. The thick strap of a beat-up leather messenger bag rests across his body. He has no coat or jacket, even though she is glad of hers already and there’s a whole night to get through yet. She has gone for standard work clothes, but on a day when she is making an effort: a black shirt dress over black boots and tights, her trusty green winter coat, black handbag.

It’s odd to see him now, smiling and coming toward her, when they have so recently been strangers and he looks the way he does. She has managed to forget, in the seventy-odd hours since she last saw him, how striking he is.

What it feels like to look into those eyes.

To have them be looking back at you.

He is stretching out an arm to greet her with a hug before she has a chance to worry about how they will greet each other and what acute awkwardness might ensue if it turns out they have different expectations. The hug is loose and polite, one-armed on either side, not at all intimate. But she gets a whiff of whatever scent he’s sprayed on himself—in the last five minutes, going by its potency—and to be so close to him, to touch him and be touched by him, even momentarily, is heady and disorienting. Her body’s reaction takes her aback and she doesn’t hear what he says immediately after they break away and turn to walk side by side in the direction of town, so distracted is she by the fading heat of the contact.

“Hmm?” she says.

“I said maybe we shouldn’t have done that. You know, hugged.” He sticks his hands in his pockets. “You heard they canceled the parade? Although it’s probably for the best. It’s all tourists at that thing anyway. The only time I’ve ever done anything for it was when I was abroad.”

They’ve canceled the St. Patrick’s Day parade. That’s what he’s talking about.

As they walk up the street, she sees women walking in the opposite direction steal glances at him as they pass. This makes her feel both completely invisible and superior to them at the same time.

These women haven’t even noticed she’s there too, but she’s the one walking with him. It’s a weird brand of pride.

“Same here,” she says.

He tells her that when he was in London, Patrick’s Day was one of the biggest nights of the year. A ticketed event at an Irish pub packed to the rafters, leprechaun outfits, drinking green beer—all things they wouldn’t be caught dead doing at home. One of his top-ten hangovers ever. His brother had been visiting, which didn’t help.

He asks her if she has siblings.

“No, I’m that rare specimen,” she says, “the Irish only child.”

“In the same realm as a unicorn sighting.”

“Leprechaun, surely?” She smiles. “But yeah. Is it just you and your brother or . . . ?”

“Just us.”

“Is he here?”

“He lives in Perth now. Has done for a while. Got the whole setup out there: mortgage, kids, pensionable job.” A pause. “I can’t see him ever coming back. He loves the weather.”

They cross the road to Baggot Street Bridge.

“Favorite movie?” she asks.

“I think his is the second Godfather.”

She laughs. “And yours?”

“Jurassic Park.”

“I don’t have one,” she says, “before you ask. I just don’t know how people can narrow it down.”

“I feel that way about food.”

“Well, there, I can do categories. Favorite cocktail, favorite pizza, favorite sandwich—but that’s as far as I go.”

“Go on then.”

“Sandwich is toasted cheese,” she says. “Toasted with mayonnaise on the outside. Has to be mayonnaise. Not butter. That’s the best way to get it golden. Pizza is roast chicken strips and red onion. Can’t beat it if the ratio is right. Cocktail . . . Well, I’m not a big drinker, really, but I do like a French 75.”

“What’s that?”

“Gin and lemon juice, little bit of sugar syrup, topped with prosecco. Or champagne, depending on how much it costs. It’s basically adult lemonade.”

“Where does a good one?”

“Oh,” she says, “I’m nowhere near discerning enough to know that. If it comes in a flute and tastes a bit fizzy, it’ll do me. And to be honest, the flute isn’t a deal breaker.”

“And you’ve only been here a week . . .”

“And I’ve only been here a week.”

“Well,” he says, stopping to bow slightly and roll his hand toward her like the maître d’ of a posh restaurant, “I’ve been here six weeks, so I’m practically a Dubliner now—”

“Certifiable, surely.”

“—and so I know where we can get a nice cocktail. It’s even near the cinema.” He holds out an elbow so she can curl her arm around his. “Shall we?”

They talk about work and TV shows and whether or not more things will be canceled because of this faraway flu and stroll through a city that feels quiet even for a Monday night. He tells her that a lot of the multinationals have their people working from home already. She says she knows and then he rolls his eyes at his forgetting that she works for one of them. She says she’ll be shocked if she’s still in the office at the end of the week, that they’re all just waiting for an official announcement. A few departments have already made the move. She thinks she can do her job just as well at home. She explains that the problem is they have thousands of workers sitting within feet of one another in a confined space, breathing recirculated air and using the same bathrooms, teaspoons, etc., and every day of the week dozens of them are coming into work fresh from trips to other facilities and offices abroad, having traveled through airports and squeezed themselves into crowded airplanes. It’s the potential threat they’re acting on, not the reality. At least for now. Someone got the measles last year and it was the same sort of thing—not because the overlords are humanitarians, but because workers being home sick affects the bottom line. Better to have them home working for a while, even if it ends up being a total overreaction.

“Here we are,” he announces.

While she was nattering on, he’s steered her off Grafton Street and now they are standing in front of a fancy hotel. The smooth, dark gloss of its first-floor bay windows promise low, warm light inside. Lush green foliage drips from the portico. Through gold-edged double glass doors, she can see an imposing staircase covered in plush carpeting. A uniformed doorman in gloves and a hat stands sentry just outside. International flags blow gently in the breeze above polished gold lettering that spells out the hotel’s name: The Westbury.

She’s heard of it but didn’t know it was here, didn’t know it was down this street, in this building that’s only ever been in her peripheral vision as she walked past.

“The bar does amazing cocktails,” he says.

“Great.”

She tries to sound like she means it, like this is great, but her eyes are on the doorman. He’s just a bouncer in better shoes. She is hyperaware of the scuffed toes of her fake leather boots, the thin fabric of her dress and the bobbles of wool on the sleeves of her winter coat. The coat that was sold at a price that suggested you should be happy to get a month of wear out of it, the same one she’s wearing for the third winter in a row. If she had known this was where they’d be going, she would’ve worn something else. She might have even tried to stretch to buying something new.

She should have known. Of course Oliver is a man who goes to places like this, who assumes he is welcome in them—because he is. The face, the suit, the cool confidence. He strides right up to the door as if the doorman isn’t even there and this is, apparently, the way to do it. The doorman not only opens the door for them but greets them both with a wide smile.

Having disentangled their linked arms to walk inside, Oliver puts a hand against the small of her back as they ascend the stairs. He’s not steering her or claiming her, but reassuring her. She wonders if he can sense how uncomfortable she is.

Another staff member, a glossy brunette, greets them at a hostess stand and directs them into the bar. When she says, “Right this way,” she says it to him from beneath a fluttering of long, dark eyelashes.

The bar is a feast of mirrored things and shiny edges, of crystal chandeliers and glasses, of plush leather upholstery and marbled surfaces. Hundreds of different-colored bottles line the wall behind the counter. The lighting, like the rest of the hotel, is low and warm. A real fire burns at one end. More uniformed staff stand waiting to tend to them.

It’s like a movie set and, for a moment, Ciara feels a little mesmerized.

The place is practically empty, with only a handful of patrons, who all sit around one table at one end, by the roaring fire. They are directed away from them to a cozy, circular booth at the other end.

When prompted, she hands over her coat to be disappeared to some plush coatroom and tries not to think about the hostess seeing the “Primark” printed on its tag. Then she chastises herself for thinking about that at all. Oliver gives the hostess his suit jacket without even looking at her.

They sit down.

He unbuttons his cuffs and starts to roll up his sleeves. His forearms are pale and covered in coarse, dark hair. He wears a silver watch that looks heavy.

“So what do you think?” he asks. He waves a hand to indicate that he’s asking about her thoughts on the bar.

“Bit grubby, if I’m honest. They could really do with sprucing the place up a bit, couldn’t they?”

He grins. “You should see the bathrooms, they’re absolutely disgusting.”

“Better or worse than those holes in the ground they have in France?”

“You’ll wish you were in one of them.”

Their banter feels like rapid gunfire and after each successful exchange, she feels a bit dizzy with relief, like she’s gone over the top in the trenches and made it to cover without taking a hit.

A waiter approaches them with two cocktail menus.

“Ah, we’ll have two”—Oliver looks to her—“What are they called?”

“French 75s. Please.”

“Excellent choice,” the waiter says. “Will I leave the menus?”

“Please do.” She reaches to take one from him. “Thank you.” And then, to Oliver, “Let’s see what else they’ve got in here . . .”

But what she’s really looking for is the price of the drinks they’ve just ordered. She flicks through, pretending to muse with deep interest over the other cocktail options. She tries not to react when she turns a page and sees it: the cocktails are twenty-four euros. Each.

“Speaking of bathrooms,” Oliver says, sliding to move out of the booth. “I’ve drunk about a liter of coffee today, so . . .”

“Don’t fall in the hole.”

“If I’m not back in five minutes—”

“Wait longer, I know.”

She watches his back disappear through the bar’s doors. Then she pulls her handbag onto her lap and starts fishing around in it for her wallet. She does a rough calculation of the creased notes inside: enough to cover the cost of two rounds of these drinks plus a cab home, just about.

He’ll probably pay. He’ll likely pay.

But still.

She slides two fingers into the little pocket attached to the bag’s lining and relaxes slightly when she feels the thin hardness of her debit card, the raised text on it against her fingers.

She’d rather not have to use it, but she can if need be.

She’ll figure something out.

They have just ordered a third round when he says, “You’re not going to believe this.”

Her cheeks feel warm, her limbs languid, her tongue loose. She’s not yet drunk but drunker than she expected she’d get, than she knows she should be. It’s because she didn’t have any lunch. Couldn’t have any; nerves had stolen her appetite. She pulls her glass of water closer and silently resolves to drink it all before she takes even one more sip of alcohol.

She says, “Try me.”

He shows her a flash of something on his phone. “The film started ten minutes ago.”

“You’re joking.”

“We could make a run for it. They’re probably still on trailers and it’s only a couple of minutes away.”

“Would it be terrible—” she starts at the exact same time he says, “Or we could just stay here.”

They both laugh.

“I hate rushing,” he says.

“Me too.”

“And I like drinking.”

“Me too.”

“And I like you.”

“Well, I am very likable.”

He laughs. He’s impressed with her.

After that quip, she’s a little impressed with herself.

“So,” she says, clearing her throat. She needs to change the subject, to give herself some time to come back from the tipsy cliff edge. “Do you come here often?”

“Oh, come on.”

“I genuinely want to know.”

“This is actually only my second time here,” he admits. “And the other time was with work. I just . . .” He pinches the stem of his glass and slides it back and forth a little until the liquid starts to slosh around inside. “I wanted to come back here with . . . not work.”

“Not work. Wow. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Do you like it?”

Their eyes meet as he asks this and it occurs to her that up until now, practically sitting side by side, she hasn’t been making much eye contact with him at all.

It’s just as well because the way he’s looking at her now . . .

She never really understood the phrase piercing when applied to eyes, but that’s what his are. He’s not just looking at her but in her, it feels like, right through the thin veneer of this pretending. It’s as if he has X-ray vision that can effortlessly penetrate all the way to the real Ciara, the one who’s curled up and careful and desperately trying to protect herself from what it might feel like if this evening goes horribly wrong.

She looks away, back to her glass.

“I do,” she says. “I do like it. I mean . . . look, it’s not really where I’d usually be, let’s put it that way.” The alcohol fizzes in her bloodstream, disintegrating walls his gaze has been weakening all night. She can’t let them fall away completely, not on this, their very first date, but she can put her face to one of the gaps and speak to him across clear air without having to risk a step outside the boundary. “I can’t really afford to come to places like this, to be honest. Not on the regular, anyway. And if I’d known this is where we’d end up, I would’ve dressed differently. I was afraid the doorman was going to stop me and say, ‘Sorry, love. No Primark apparel allowed inside.’ ”

“He calls you love and says apparel? Who is this guy?”

She slaps him playfully on the forearm.

“You know what I mean.”

“For the record,” he says, “I think you look lovely.”

She mumbles, “Thank you,” to her glass.

“It’s just a bit special, isn’t it?”

He could mean the bar. Or the drinks.

Or this night, with her in it.

“Here’s what I like about this place.” She’s careful to speak her words more slowly than she’s thinking them, distinctly pronouncing each one. Or so she hopes. “It’s hidden. It’s not a secret, but it’s not on show. You can’t know this is here when you walk past this building on the street, but come inside and turn a corner and it’s revealed to you, this beauty that’s been here all the time. Waiting. And I love that. I love discovering places like this because it makes me wonder about what else is inside all these buildings I walk past every day. What else is just waiting to be discovered? There’s a whole hidden city. Several hidden cities. All hiding in plain sight in this one.”

“So you like secrets,” Oliver says.

“No.” It comes out too quickly, sounding too harsh. She says it again, slower and softer. “No. It’s . . . There’s a place in New York, a bar, that you have absolutely no way of knowing is there unless you’re told about it by someone else who has been told about it because no part of it faces the street and there’s no sign, and the only way to get in is through a secret door in another bar.”

“That sounds exhausting,” he says.

“And so unnecessary. Like, just serve good drinks and be nice to people and stop with all the shite. But that kinda thing—that’s a secret. And secrets are about denying people things. The truth, yes, but also the experience, the knowledge . . . You’re just trying to keep them out of the cool gang. You’re trying to decide who gets to be in the cool gang, and that’s just . . .” Ciara stops, having lost her train of thought. Where had she been going with that? The warmth of the alcohol is spreading unbidden throughout her body. “It’s not secrets I like. It’s discovering things that are new to me but actually were always there. Secrets are a different thing. They’re destructive.”

Silence.

She dares to turn and look at him and finds that his eyes are on her. For a second she thinks he might be about to move to kiss her, and she hopes not because she’s not ready, she’s not prepared, and she’s definitely a little bit drunk and she’d rather not be, not for that, but instead he nods and says, “I know what you mean,” and then that he has to go to the bathroom again.

“Three times in one night?”

“I’ve broken the seal,” he says gravely.

“I actually have to go, too. I’ll go when you get back.”

“I can wait?”

“I can wait longer.” She waves a hand. “Go on.”

This time, when he’s gone, she forces herself to finish her water in three long gulps. Then she takes one of the clean cocktail napkins from the table, folds it neatly, and tucks it inside her bag. When she looks up the waiter is standing there, smirking at her conspiratorially, and she flashes him a guilty smile and says, “A souvenir.”

“It’s going well, then,” he says.

“I think so.”

“I think so too.”

He sets down their fresh drinks, winks at her, and leaves.

When they’ve both drained their glasses, he suggests they make a move. She’s surprised by how late it is—almost ten, how did that happen?—and she says so. She finds out that he paid the bill while she was in the bathroom and she protests but not too hard, and thanks him.

His hand is on the small of her back again as they descend the stairs, but it’s pressed firmly against her body now. She’s carrying her coat over her arm and can feel the heat of his skin through the thin material of her dress. She hopes he can’t feel the band of her tights sticking into her flesh. She wonders what he can feel.

They face their own reflections in the dark glass of the doors, and she is struck by how good they look, him and her, coupled together.

And then, how quickly this has happened, how fast they’ve gone from strangers in a supermarket line to him here beside her, touching her, telling her things about himself.

Maybe this can be easy.

But what comes next?

She assumes they will go somewhere else, have one for the road, and maybe grab some late-nightfast-food somewhere—God knows she could use it—or maybe—

“Can we get a cab?” Oliver says to the doorman, a different one from before.

This throws her but she doesn’t outwardly react. She wants to know where they’re getting this cab to but she also doesn’t want to threaten the delicate equilibrium of these next few moments. She feels like a time traveler exercising extreme caution in the present, which is actually the past, because she knows how good the future is and doesn’t want it to change one bit.

It’s harder not to react when the cab pulls up and Oliver opens a door and motions for her to get in, but then after she does stays there, standing outside the car.

He’s not getting in, she realizes.

He leans down, one hand on the roof, until his face is level with hers.

“I’m gonna walk home,” he says.

“Oh.” Disappointment washes over her in a wave. “Sure. Right.”

“Are you around Thursday evening? We could actually go see the film this time.”

She nods. Smiles briefly. “Yeah.”

“I’ll text you.”

“Okay. Great.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He closes her door for her and moves to the front passenger side, where the window is rolled down. He bends to drop something into the seat—enough money to cover the fare, she’ll figure out in a second—and waves at the driver.

He gives her another wave as the car pulls off.

She doesn’t quite understand what just took place. He wants to see her again, okay, but not any more tonight? Not now?

“Where to, love?” the driver asks over his shoulder.

Any confidence she had in her ability to navigate these waters dissipates. She doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing. She should just give up now.

“Home,” she says absently, before realizing that he’s asking for an address.