Chapter 8 - Sin and Tonic
Emily arrived at the bar five minutes early -- a truly remarkable achievement for someone who was deeply unpunctual. One of her old boyfriends had bestowed upon her the nickname 'timeless beauty', which stuck like glue for the rest of her life. It was one of her few flaws, but her friends tolerated it well enough.
She saw Max the moment she walked into the bar. He was sitting alone but stood to greet her when she walked through the door. He'd paired jeans with a fitted shirt and lightweight blazer, which he'd bought that very morning from a store on Savile Row; this girl was
gorgeous
, and £800 on a jacket would be worth every penny if it brought home the bacon. He smiled to himself at the crude double meaning he had just invented. But the heat of the bar had taken its toll, and now the expensive jacket was being worn by his chair.
Max met Emily with a peck on the cheek, and she air-kissed him back before nervously perching on the edge of her seat.
"You look bloody fantastic," Max said with a grin, looking at her dress with obvious admiration. "I'm stoked to see you Emily, I've been looking forward to this all week!"
Emily smiled back. "Me too, Max," she replied simply. Her nerves were getting the better of her, and the opening conversation felt stilted and stiff.
"Can I get you a drink?" asked Max, sensing her tension.
Emily smiled. "Gin and tonic, please," she replied.
Emily looked around the room, taking in the sleek lines. The interior designer had clearly had an impressive budget; high-backed leather chairs were dotted along the chrome-edged bar, and statement glass lamps hung from the ceiling. There was a low hum of chatter from the other patrons, who were mostly dressed in the 'brogues-and-chinos' and 'heels-and-frock' uniform of the wealthy.
Emily thought back to the first time she'd seen Max. "Nothing out of the ordinary," she'd said to herself. "Reasonably good-looking, a little short, but decent physique."
Then, she'd simply been looking for a stooge to show Mark who was in charge, to demonstrate her power over him and over men. Now, she was interested for herself.
Max had proven himself funny and confident, and her appetite was whetted. She reconsidered her opinion of him as he walked to the bar.
"Nice outfit," she thought to herself, "and nice bum." The fabric of Max's trousers was tight, revealing an arse that Michelangelo himself would have been proud to carve into marble.
Eventually, Max paid for the drinks and pushed away from the bar, treating Emily to a frontal view. His shirt clung to his torso, the top button undone to reveal a glimpse of tanned skin and a muscular chest beneath. Every step he took caused the material to shift just enough to hint at the power beneath. "Forget Michelangelo," Emily murmured, her lips actually moving, "he's a Rodin." An image of herself entwined in Max's arms flashed through her mind as she imagined herself as the figure in
The Kiss
, Rodin's masterpiece that she had once seen at Tate Modern.
Max placed the drinks on the table; gin and tonic for Emily ("
Bombay Sapphire
-- hope that's OK?"), and a pint of
London Pride
for Max ("it's early for whisky"). He sat down and tried to make small talk.
Emily listened politely, hardly concentrating on what was being said. Her mind raced with thoughts that were reluctant to enter the world -- she had practised this moment over and over in her head, but to hear the words aloud was to admit to herself -- to everyone -- that what she was doing was wrong. As Max came to the end of another polite, but dull question about what her plans were for the coming week (which he then mostly answered for himself), Emily felt an urge to speak.
"Max, I'm... Oh God I'm but really sure how to say this properly, so I'll just do it." Max looked at her intently, his face a picture of concern. "Max, I'm... Gosh, this is a bit harder to say that I thought it would be. I'm..."
Max reached forward and held her hand, staring intently into her eyes. "Oh fuck, what have I got myself into here?" he thought to himself as he looked at her pretty face, even now imaging her lips around him. "Looks like she's got a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock... or maybe she's about to tell me she's dying? Fuck, I could do without this..."
Emily looked back at Max, grateful for his understanding of her troubles. She felt she could trust him, even though they'd just met.
"Max, I'm... married." Emily bit her bottom lip as she uttered the words, her mind full of white noise that blocked out every other sound in the bar.
Max laughed. And laughed some more. Emily looked back him surprised, before starting to laugh herself. He didn't seem to mind!
"Crikey, I thought you were going to tell me you were dying!" he roared. A few of the neighbouring drinkers looked up at his booming chuckle, before turning back to their interrupted conversations. Max calmed down a little before continuing.
"So, you're married?" he said, still too loudly for Emily's liking. She looked around to see if anyone had heard.
"Yes, look, it's a bit awkward, can we keep it down a bit?" she asked plaintively.
"So you're getting divorced," Max assumed while shrugging, now guessing his role was to scoop up a broken bird for her first date after a messy breakup.
"This could work out OK," his inner voice informed him. "This Sheila must be desperate for some attention after her husband left her (
what an idiot!
)"
The cogs in his head continued to whir. A worrying thought occurred: "Maybe he left her because she isn't right in the head?" he thought. "I should bail out now, while I still have the chance. Still... she is good looking..." Emily sat quietly without replying, and it took Max a few moments to realise she hadn't responded to his statement.
