Chapter 33
Dirk
Lucy’s busy textingin the car. Good. I’m still fuming. “Commitment-phobic?” I am made of commitments, so propped up with good intentions I can barely sit down, let alone relax, and then there are all the invisible commitments I’d almost forgotten. They pounce on me when I’m not on guard, like responsibility for little sister Jill and my demanding nephews; like Jamison’s never-ending needs. They land on me with the fragrance of orange blossom at dusk in spring; and the sound of a violin after dark.
When I find a parking space near Brighton Court, Lucy is out of her side in a flash. She meets me on the sidewalk.
“Have I offended you, Dirk? What did I say?”
Lucy’s hands reach out to mine, cover them gently and squeeze.
Those high cheekbones, and her eyes – so sincere. I’ve never told anyone the whole of it, not even Millie. What could it hurt to share my sorrows? But Lucy and I are neighbors, and if this fragile thing between us, whatever it is – if it breaks, how will it be to pass her in the stairwell every day and have to stare her down, forget what we’ve shared? How could I ever bring someone else to Brighton Court? Or see her here with somebody new?
Lucy is right. As long as I hold her at bay, our relationship has no name. Nothing is ventured, and nothing gained. But nor is anything lost.
“Let’s play ten questions again,” Lucy says as we walk companionably down the hill towards the apartments.
“This is not a game,” I say.
“Then what is it, if it’s not a game?” she says, as she stops and pins me with her eyes. “Is it war? Is it peace? Am I suddenly the enemy? Dirk, you must have played a hundred games of soccer and saved even more goals, your efforts and triumphs on show for hundreds of thousands of fans. So what ‘game’ is it you can’t play with me? Friends share, Dirk.”
“Leave me alone, please, Lucy,” I say, and I turn away from her. Already I’m hurting her, I know it, and I can’t bear it, not any of it. I need my own space, my apartment.
But when I get there, and my breath settles from all the steps, it’s all too perfect. The housekeeper has sprayed the place with something. I throw open the windows and lean out, and it’s then that I see her; Lucy Beston, running up the hill like a wild thing, my words behind her.
It was a mistake to take her to that house. I can’t wait to sell the place, but I won’t be forced to sell this one, too. It’s convenient. It’s comfortable. It’s a fresh start. What more could I possibly want? I force the image of Lucy’s lithe body as far away as possible from my mind – her warmth, her vivacity, her subtle sense of humor, her bright eyes, the set of her chin – and that calculated kiss on the dancefloor, in front of hundreds of people, including Jill and Jamison and Dee.
My phone rings.
“So, who is she, Dad, the mystery woman?” says Dee.
“Lucy, my neighbor. I went to introduce you at the ball, but she was already leaving.”
“Is she that drug addict who was on tv?”
