Unravelled (12 page)

“Go on.” Earl says laughing. “We can talk business later.” He hands me a pool cue that he got from under the counter and eyes the men at the pool table. “Now you look after this lady, you hear. No nonsense.”

A collective “yes, Earl” gives me the impression that as congenial as Earl is, he runs his pub with an intolerance for nonsense.

The next two hours has a blurred quality to it. Three more ‘gentlemen’ joins us at the pool table and I now have four expert instructors and one opponent. A game which I have played before, albeit not very well, has turned into a very confusing educational experience. All my instructors are convinced that they know the best angle, speed and each shot becomes a dispute. After much deliberation they reach a compromise and proceed to instruct me how to shoot, which I of course totally fluff up. This causes a revision of strategy and two hours later I bow out after being begged to play another round. A lady can take only so much educating in one evening.

I sit down at the counter with my cheeks hurting from all the laughing and sigh with contentment. This is not the usual crowd I hang with, but they make for a very entertaining few hours at the pub and I savour the feeling of being accepted into a community – a novel and nice experience. My pool team settle their bill and make their way home while grunting about chores and nagging wives waiting for them.

“Had fun?” Earl takes a bottle from below the counter and pours two small tots. He passes one to me and lifts his in a silent toast. I take a sip of the unknown liquid and it burns all the way down my throat in a very pleasant way, but the moment I take a breath it almost knocks me off the chair.

“Wow.”

“Yes, it is my favourite and I leave it for the last drink of the night.” He takes another sip and asks again, “So, did you have fun?”

“Oh yes! They are very nice men. They’re very … um… male.” Earl bursts out laughing and puts his glass on the counter.

“You mean they’re opinionated, stubborn know-it-alls?”

“Yes,” I laugh. “But they’re good guys.”

“So where is your guy?” Earl’s question destroyed my laughter with the power of a nuclear bomb.

“There’s no guy.” The words falling from my mouth have a fatalistic and hopeless sound to it that does not sit well with me.

“Now why would a pretty little thing like you not have a man?” It must be a combination of the beer, atmosphere and Earl’s sincerity that makes me want to open up and that raises the sirens. I play with the little glass and wait for the moment of openness to pass.

“Ah-hah.” Earl draws out the sounds in an irritatingly knowing way. “Forget about that. I’m just a nosy old man. Maybe you could tell me why, on this beautiful earth God created, you drive that rattling heap of steel?”

I gratefully jump at the change of topic. “Um... I am no longer driving it. A few things happened and Al now has it.”

“Aha. So, that is the “project” Al was talking about.”

“I suppose so.”

We discuss the few things that happened to Bomb which Earl finds most entertaining. He listens patiently to my explanations why I want to keep my car and not buy a new one, nodding his head.

“I have an old 1939
Austin
8 that I bought when I graduated from college.”

“You still have it?”

“Yup.”

“In running condition?”

“In perfect running and overall condition. I only take it out for a drive every Sunday afternoon. The rest of the week it sits in my garage, patiently waiting for the next Sunday.”

“I would love to see her.” Earl smiles at me. “Earl, I’m serious! I love old cars.”

“With pleasure. Why don’t you come around one Sunday afternoon and we’ll take her for a drive.”

“For real?” He smiles again and nods which makes me beam with happiness. Or maybe I’m beaming from the strong drink he gave me. It would also explain my passionate enthusiasm about old cars when I’m usually mildly enthusiastic.

Thankfully he doesn’t return to discussing my love life and we talk about his family while I help him clean up and lock up for the night. I gladly accept his offer to drive me home since he’s only got that one little drink in his system and I suspect that I’m no longer able to walk in a straight line.

It is past midnight when Earl drops me off in front of the house and I make my way to the cottage and a dog which, after a few beers I have no problem admitting, I’m very fond of. I left Blossom in the cottage before I went to the pub, knowing that if outside, he’ll sit by the front door howling to be let in. I also drew the curtains, else Blossom would sit with his wet snout against the sliding door the whole night watching for my return.

I’m about to put my key in the lock when I hear something unusual. I stop breathing for a moment and listen. There it is again. The unmistakable sound of Blossom whimpering. Oh my god. What happened? It takes two shaking attempts before I successfully insert the key to the lock and slide the door open.

Oh. My. God.

Chapter 10

I can’t knock, so I kick the door again and groan under the weight in my arms. Where is that insufferable man?

“Hello!” What was supposed to be an attention drawing yell comes out as a screech. I hear thundering footsteps and heave a sigh of relieve. The kitchen door of the main house swings open and a very unhappy
Mr Wall Street
glares at me. It feels like my arms are being pulled out of their sockets and my legs are trembling, but Mr Wall Street doesn’t make a move to help me. His glare turns into a look of astonishment and it echoes in his voice when he starts speaking.

“Why, why are you carrying that dog?”

“He almost drowned!” I feel my chin trembling and tears are forming behind my eyes. “I got home…pub…Earl…water everywhere…Blossom…couch…whimper…scared of water…he...he almost drowned!” My nonsensical blubbering brought a look of tender confusion to Mr Wall Street’s eyes. I bury my face in Blossom’s wet fur, sniff very unsexily and breathe in at least three hairs.

“Maybe you should put him down, Alex.” The tenderness in his voice is mixed with speckles of laughter and I can only imagine what I must look like. I took my shoes off when I went into the cottage, my pantyhose ripped on the way to the main house and my jeans are wet to the knees. My make-up is sure to have run with this silly crying and… I am still holding a seventy two kilogram dog in my now-numb arms.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m just going to put you down. We’re very far from the water now.” I awkwardly lower myself and unsurprisingly lose my balance. Blossom and I land on the steps by the kitchen door in a tangle of legs, arms, expelled bottom air and lots of fur. Both of us scramble up and sit on the floor looking woefully at Mr Wall Street who looks like he’s hyperventilating in his attempt to not laugh.

“Please come inside and tell me exactly what happened. You too, dog.” I take his offered hand and pull myself up, Blossom remains on the steps in a dejected heap. No amount of coaxing gets him to move and I walk back to him and am about to pick him up again when I hear a groan behind me.

“Let me.” Mr Wall Street effortlessly picks Blossom up only after threatening the poor dog with all kinds of dismembering if he even thought of biting the hand that’s carrying him or if a puff of air were to leave his body.

I follow the unlikely duo through the kitchen into an awe-inspiring living room. The last ten minutes are forgotten as I gape at the surroundings. Everything whispers class and money and I like everything – from the tiled floors, the loose rugs, and the lived-in, comfortable, yet obviously expensive couches to the colourful lamps. I like everything, because none of it is pretentious. Obviously expensive and tasteful, but not pretentious.

We reach the sitting area where one large couch, one smaller couch and three loose standing arm chairs fill the space to create a homey atmosphere. Adam gently lowers a trembling Blossom onto a rug and turns to me.

“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” He walks over to a cabinet and waits for my order.

“Water please.” The beers and whiskey I had at the pub still gives everything a bit of a hazy glow and I need my wits now. I sit down on the smaller couch, close to Blossom and bury my hands in his wet fur. As it is, I smell like Earl’s pub and with the added wet-dog smell, I’m sure that I’m a challenge for a sensitive nose. I need to have a shower. I murmur all sorts of nonsense to Blossom while Mr Wall Street plays barman. He places the glass on a very antique looking table next to me, of course on a coaster, and sits himself down in a wing back chair.

“What happened?” His economy with words makes me decide to follow his lead.

“The cottage flooded. I got…”

“What?!” He leans forward and pins me with his eyes and waits for me to respond to his outburst. So I do. Slowly.

“The cottage flooded.” I think he got it this time. “When I got home there was water everywhere and Blossom was on the couch. You see, he’s petrified of water and refuses to even put his feet in it. That’s why I had to carry him out.” My arm muscles are still burning. “I hope he’s not going to hate me forever. I just put him inside because I know how he gets when he has to stay outside at night. I just never expected the cottage to flood.”

I can feel my chin trembling again and my voice has an audible quiver in it. “I just don’t want Blossom to hate me.” I say in a very small voice. I blame the alcohol for this emotional display.

“I’m sure he won’t…um…hate you. I tell you what. You sit here and sort things out with the dog and I’m going to have a look at the cottage.”

So here I am, on the floor next to an overgrown, totally neurotic dog. Pathetic. I know that’s how
Mr Wall Street
must think of me, and most likely the rest of the world too. But the rest of the world didn’t see this big dog huddled in the corner of the beautiful coffee coloured couch, whimpering and shaking. Nor are they looking into his sad eyes right now. Somewhere in my rational mind I know that the alcohol in my system is making me overemotional and overreact. Thus I don’t blame myself for Blossom’s traumatic experience, since I didn’t expect the cottage-villa to turn into the Titanic. Yet I feel bizarrely guilty. And cold.

I leave Blossom alone for a few moments with a mission to hunt down a bathroom in this colossal place. It’s a three story house that looks like it could be used for one of the infamous Gatsby parties. Surely there must be a guest bathroom on the ground floor. I look back into the living room to make sure Blossom is okay. He’s still sitting on the rug with periodic shivers convulsing his body, but is also beginning to look around him.

I walk deeper into the large entry hall looking at the Gone With The Wind staircase leading to the top floors. I imagine Rhett Butler coming down the stairs and snort at this when I think of the many similarities
Mr Wall Street
and Rhett share.

I open a door and look into an old fashioned library. How beautiful. A new wave of gooseflesh reminds me why I’m snooping and after another door – a formal sitting room – I find the guest bathroom. Genius that I am, I locate spare towels in a cupboard under the basin and make my way to the living room towels in my arms.

I feel a little bit guilty for using these fluffy, monogrammed towels to dry a smelly wet dog, but I know from dear experience that dry cleaners are the gods’ gift to people like me. And that’s how Mr Wall Street finds us. I’m on the floor next to a much drier Blossom, with a mini mountain of wet towels on the floor.

His eyes fall on the towels and he closes them in a moment of decision. He evidently decides to ignore my impertinence and with a sigh sits back down in the wingback chair.

“I thought you were exaggerating, but it’s really bad. It seems like it has something to do with the water supply. I can see water bubbling up through the lawn, so I phoned the water company and they’re aware of the problem. They’ll only be here in the morning though. Said there was nothing they could do tonight.” The hardness in his voice gives me an idea of the chilly verbal assault the person on the other side of the phone received. There’s a moment of silence that threatens to turn awkward.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you. I found some towels and am a bit drier now.”

“And him?” He looks at Blossom who’s lying with his head on my lap.

“I don’t think he hates me.” Mr Wall Street smiles at me joking at my own expense. “He’s just the most neurotic animal I’ve ever come across. And the sweetest. He’s such a big lug and I feel so protective of him.” I play with the velvet ear flopped over Blossom’s face.

“You can have the guest room.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t sleep in the cottage tonight and I think it’s going to take a few days to dry out. I’ll help you bring your things over and you can settle in the guest room.”

“And Blossom?”

“The dog too.”

Okay, who’s this man? What happened to the animal-hostile, intolerant egomaniac? Could this be a case of mistaken identity? You know, like in those historic novels where the hero seems to be a total butt, and then turns out to be a gentle soul. My historic novel hero gets out of his chair and with a disgusted look at the towels and a snort totally destroys my hope of discovering his gentle soul.