With heartfelt thanks to Bill Kipling
Jack Bateman sat in his den. His blue eyes were unfocused as he stared at the TV screen. The local news broadcast was white noise to him, a murmuring backdrop to his thoughts. The glass of Pilsener stood ignored beside his chair, the remote control lay forgotten in his hand. He had seen her today.
When amongst people, Jack's expression was usually attentive. His eyes were uncommonly warm for their light color and his broad 6' 1" frame, strong and well honed through years of workout discipline, was noticeable for its trimness rather than capacity to intimidate. This was deliberate on Jack's part. When meeting with clients he leaned forward, partly to assure them he was listening carefully and partly to reduce his height. When in court, he used his physical qualities to their full advantage. His eyes took on an intensity that unsettled inexperienced and fallible witnesses before he spoke a single word. He was a carefully controlled chameleon; there was never a moment when Jack Bateman did not present himself according to what was required.
That Jack was able to respond so appropriately to situations was due to two qualities. He was observant, and he was analytical. While always ready with a smile and a genuinely warm sense of humor, Jack could also place himself on the fringes of human interaction and often did so, the better to observe it.
In this way he had learnt the unspoken rules of behavior as defined by the senior partners, and avoided the faux pas committed by his peers. He worked out regularly at his gym, and worked his mind as assiduously and resolutely as he worked his body. He missed nothing, he worked hard, and he never allowed his analytical ability to be swayed by subjective judgments.
In fact he was so rational that, at times, he could exasperate those who were closest to him. Everyone agreed that Jack was a 'great guy'. He was perceptive, a ready listener, and always responsive. Yet nobody could say they really knew him well. That the man was passionate was easy to believe; anyone who had seen him defend a client could recognize the depths of his feelings. But when engaged in personal conversation, Jack often gave the impression there was more going on in his mind than he was willing to divulge.
His chosen career and his dedication to it rewarded him well. He had taste and indulged it, carefully selecting the trappings of his hard won wealth; a small art collection, a large collection of classical recordings. He found time to indulge his love of history, travel and sailing. And theater. Which is how he met her.
*******
For years he had made an annual migration to London, visiting the theaters on Shaftesbury Avenue and taking in the atmosphere with a heady joy. He loved the English springtime and he enjoyed Shakespeare; and so the decision to break his routine one year and see the Royal Shakespeare Company perform at Stratford-on-Avon was almost inevitable. A friend recommended a 16th century inn within striking distance of the town. Using this as his base, he quickly worked up a plan that would keep him happily exploring the honey colored villages of the North Cotswolds, and take him as far afield as Oxford. With taxi service arranged to transport him from Heathrow to Stratford and back, and a classic MGB Roadster booked for the duration of his stay, Jack knew it would be a memorable trip. It was more than he hoped for.
On the morning he visited the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, the tour was able to include the backstage. This added another dimension to his understanding of that evening's performance; a dimension he found himself explaining to a quiet, gently smiling, fellow American woman later that evening.
The way they met was part serendipity, part gallantry. He had made his dinner reservation well in advance; she had not. He had not yet ordered when he observed that a poised, fair-haired woman in a simple black dress was about to be turned away for lack of seating. On impulse he had asked his waiter to let her know that, if she would like, she was welcome to join him. She was alone, so was he. Why not?
That they lived within twenty blocks of each other was quickly passed over, once discovered. Neither knew if that was a good thing or not. But as the evening's conversation progressed, Jack began to think it might be. By the time they got to sharing a chocolate truffle torte with espresso anglaise, he had decided it was. Her name was Christine. Christine Langford. She was a technology consultant with a small outsourcing company. Their clients were well taken care of; she wasn't able to take extended vacation time very often, and she rarely traveled abroad. She struck him as being a little out of her depth, and it attracted him.
She was reserved, even cool, at first. Her dark hazel eyes would only occasionally meet his. Given the situation, he thought her caution was sensible. As she relaxed, he caught glimpses of a considerate nature. She had relatives in London, had planned this trip with an aunt who had fallen ill at the last minute. She almost hadn't come but her aunt had insisted that she should. Their plan had been to eat dinner at a local pub, but she didn't feel comfortable doing that on her own. It was kind of him to share his table with her. Would he excuse her? She wanted to call and make sure her aunt was alright.
He studied her as she walked to the lobby area, watched her easy movements on her high heels. They added some height to her 5' 4" frame, and balanced her compact figure. She curved in all the right places. Curves he became better acquainted with, back in the United States.
They agreed to date on their return. Once she was over her caution, and he had eased her shyness with his warmth and candor, Jack found she laughed easily at his gentle teasing. She was easy to get along with during the few days they spent together. It was in a low-ceilinged, rowdy pub in Oxford that they finally swapped telephone numbers.
To his joy, she turned out to be the same person back home as she had been on vacation. She was natural, and a natural choice for him, he decided. She kept her apartment and moved in with him, eventually. From the start, they worked out together at his gym. It gratified him to see how vivacious she could be, how she impressed the male contingent in the free weights room. It was her odd mix of brilliance and insecurity that he found so attractive, and she was undeniably intelligent. He was proud of her.
There had been few lovers in Christine's life besides one, long-term relationship. Jack was a confirmed bachelor and had played the field more. In the beginning, their lovemaking was lustful. While Christine was shy, she was not timid. She gave herself freely to passion and Jack enjoyed feeling her ardor rising, taking her to the edge of orgasm, and controlling their lovemaking. Then, as long work hours intruded, as the weekend routines took hold, they made love less often. She perceived his devotion to his career as waning interest in her, and it hurt her pride. She felt shut out; he never discussed his cases, and he didn't understand her professional field. Resentment set in. Jack knew he was losing her but could not respond; at some level of intimacy, their relationship failed. Jack could not admit to himself that he needed her help, and she could not perceive that he needed it. So Christine played along as Jack analyzed, reasoned, and rationalized away her concerns until she felt her self-confidence slipping away. And then she became angry, no longer able to talk coherently about how she felt. Jack's cool composure, his only defense, became abhorrent to her.
Their breakup became a necessity, in the end; he came home one day and she was gone.
Outwardly, Jack did not change. She never turned up at his gym again. When asked if she was OK, he frankly and unemotionally stated she had moved out. He didn't offer any more information than that and, sensing a tender bruise, the gym clientele left the subject alone. He carried on as though nothing had happened. It was the rational thing to do; so, too, was not looking back. Jack had put time and distance between him and Christine, and had moved on. Or so he thought.
*******
As he stared with uncomprehending eyes at the colors on his TV screen, Jack was dimly aware he was in shock. He had seen her today.
Shock wasn't too strong a word, he decided. He'd not expected to see her, but it was more than that. It was the way she'd acted, the way she'd talked. He thought he knew her, but she had been so different it was almost as though someone else was walking in her skin. He didn't believe people changed that radically. So he played back the memory, analyzing, seeking answers. She had turned up at his gym.
Helen was a trusted spotter with many of the gym regulars. She paid attention, watched carefully for signs of collapse and mentally counted the repetitions. What Jack appreciated most was the way she spotted him on the bench press. She was unobtrusive, applying just enough lift to the bar to help him on the last reps. Her encouragement was quietly spoken. Not anything like what he had heard on that last set; the one where he had closed his eyes. He had been focusing on squeezing the last, desperate contractions from his pectoral muscles when he had heard her voice. Christine's voice.
