“There’s a drumming noise inside my head
That starts when you’re around
I swear that you could hear it
It makes such an almighty sound…”
– Florence + The Machine
_______________________
The next week goes by remarkably fast, Monday being my first full day at the museum. And I’m so busy with the tasks at hand that I totally forget my doctor’s appointment to get my required shots for school. I call back to the clinic to reschedule for the next time my schedule will permit, a week-and-a-half off, and I am fully reprimanded by the scheduling nurse. I will not be allowed to complete my registration or attend any classes without keeping this appointment. I promise twice that I will not miss my next scheduled time and immediately add it to my planner and let my boss know that I’ll need to knock off early that day. Carol adds the date to her calendar too and giggles profusely at me for putting in a ‘grand’ effort to get out of the required physical, albeit unsuccessfully.
With Jasmine busy tending to the whims of the kings and a short trip back to the states to see her mother, my evenings are spent walking the streets around the hostel. Three weeks in, I’ve become very at ease with my little corner of Dublin. Walking two blocks to St. Stephen’s Green then up the wide Grafton Street to Suffolk Street to say hello to Robert before heading over to Temple Bar and some late-night dancing when I don’t have to be at the museum super-early — or even sometimes when I do.
During the week, I run into Grant twice at Lillie’s Bordello and Max once at Caruso where he insists on buying me dinner. The conversation is friendly and easy and the groping is kept to roaming hands during hugs only, so I find myself more at ease with this magnetic man than I probably should be, considering that I think he’s only been keeping the flirting on the low to reel me into his web even more thoroughly. Regardless of my own hangups about whatever is happening between the two of us, I receive my formal invitation from the man himself to his little “family gathering, pre-Christmas party thing” at his house on Saturday evening. Trying not to sound too eager, I tell him I’ll try to be there. But we both know my coy response is utter bullshit. Jasmine will do everything short of dragging me there by my hair, since there’s no way in hell that I’m going to pass up on an opportunity to hopefully, finally, meet his damn bandmate after sixteen-plus years of crushing hard and almost five years of near misses as my friends, co-workers and former boss were trying in earnest to “hook us up”.
Saturday arrives before I have a chance to take a full breath and Jasmine has come to collect me early for some pre-party lunch and a lift out to the guest house where I’ll be staying for the weekend — allowing us to take our time getting ready for this evening. Being completely honest with myself, I’m ridiculously nervous about the possibility that my dream man will be there and my lack of what I feel is proper rockstar party attire is making me jumpy and irritable. Frustrated by my spiraling confidence, Jasmine finally throws some leggings and a slouchy sweater at me with orders to get dressed. I roll my eyes but do as I’m told. Quickly getting dressed before pulling on my Wellies as Jasmine tosses my bag and room key at me.
Jasmine drags me out of the room with an admonishment for my attempt to argue with her as I’m pulled out of the hostel and down York Street. I rush to keep up as she quickly veers off the main road after a block taking me down Lower Mercer Street and turning right passing the Gaiety Theatre before we reach Grafton. I ask Jasmine where we’re going, but she only cryptically replies that I’m in serious need of a confidence booster and that she’s going to help me get ready for this party, as she steers me up Grafton before turning left toward a seeming dead end. But through a narrow opening between the buildings there is a small colonnade of shops that reminds me of the little bodegas in some of the trendier train stations in Manhattan. There is a jewelry shop to our left that looks interesting, but she pulls me further down the hall until she stops abruptly to open a door into the smallest shop I’ve ever seen. Jasmine greets the shopkeeper by name and dramatically exclaims how glad she is to see her, as our presence is a dire fashion emergency.
The woman replies with a smile and a nod of understanding. I look around and see the woman’s name everywhere and deduce that this must be her shop. It’s nearly as small as my hostel room but it’s packed to the ceiling with racks and boxes and as I focus my eyes it’s all satin and silk and lace — the most stunning lingerie I’ve ever seen.
I am introduced to the shop owner, Jane, as Jasmine’s very dear friend. And without further preamble Jane’s informed that I’m coming to the party tonight, and, to my utter embarrassment, in dire need of some rockstar-worthy underthings. As apparently, my lingerie drawer is pathetic. The ladies both laugh at my expense as I groan inwardly and Jane extends her hand to me in greeting then pulls me deeper into the tiny shop in one efficient movement.
An hour-and-a-half later, I’ve tried on every single bra, corset, nightgown and boudoir slipper in my size, I have been given loan, with much protest on my part, of Jasmine’s credit card and per her tutelage, I am now the proud owner of five beautiful Belgian-made brassieres with matching panties, three corsets and one very lovely silk chemisette for sleeping. I will owe Jasmine until I reach my mid-eighties but once everything’s been packed in the bag as big as a weekend luggage piece, she’s relatively satisfied that I’m ready for tonight.
I promise Jane that I’ll be back when I finally have my own paycheck for the one other bra we elected not to get on this trip, a stunning midnight blue number that feels like second skin and accented with electric blue metallic threads through the semi-sheer cups and delicate lace trim. Jasmine and I walk arm-in-arm back to the hostel so I can pack up an overnight bag, as I will stay with her after the party tonight and probably tomorrow night, as well. Jasmine picks out my most slinky little black dress and my stiletto suede ankle boots. The new chemisette for sleeping. I insist on packing one of the corsets and matching panties, in deep plum purple, to wear under the dress, still not totally comfortable with my figure to not go in with some sort of armor and protection, especially if my crush is going to be there.
We finish loading up my bag then head down to the borrowed Mercedes parked on Whitefriar Street. I get into the correct side the first time this time as Jasmine gets into the drivers’ side and smoothly turns over the ignition. She pulls into traffic and gets us on the correct road down to the singer’s guesthouse.
Along the way, I finally get to marvel at the stunning countryside and seaside homes as we weave through the mid-afternoon traffic and down the Irish coast. We stop in Dalkey and have a late lunch and tea at Finnegan’s Pub. It’s my second trip to Dalkey in as many weeks and while Jasmine orders enough food to feed herself and several other patrons, I keep it small and opt for an appetizer. Jasmine looks at me suspiciously, but makes no comment about my lack of food.
Honestly, I don’t think I can stomach much of anything right now for as nervous as I’m becoming. My hands are shaking in spite of our sitting next to a warm coal fire tucked into the far corner of the pub’s main room and the pot of tea that tries to soothe and warm me from the inside. Jasmine asks, out of the blue, if I’ve done a “proper tea” yet, which I haven’t, so she declares that she will make reservations for us at the Shelbourne Hotel for tomorrow, so I can experience a “real high tea”, firsthand. I can barely contain the heavy sigh and keep from rolling my eyes as she declares that she will dedicate the next week entirely to making sure that I really know everything I need to in order to survive here.
“There may come a time when I’m not here and you need to know where to go and where to buy the best lingerie in the city!” She declares.
“All right,” I concede. “You were right. Your friend Jane has the most incredible lingerie I’ve ever seen. Even Agent Provocateur doesn’t have that much selection for girls like us.” I gesture to the ample bosom of my frame.
“See!” She exclaims as the waitress brings food, choosing not to remark on the self-deprecating comment about my bust size, “you need me to ensure you don’t go insane here!”
I smile and tuck in to my small plate of oysters and side salad.
An hour later, we pull into the garage next to the big house. And as Jasmine shuts off the engine, we can both hear Max hollering animatedly from the driveway. We look at each other worried about what kind of trouble Max has managed to get himself into, before jumping out of the car to see what’s going on, only to find him, complete with hooded tracksuit, looking like a sketch of the “Unibomber”. He’s directing decorators, caterers and an equally diminutive DJ, hauling sound equipment into the house. After several moments, Max sees us and abandons his traffic-cop duties to come over and give us girls a proper greeting.
“I’ve made sure there’s plenty of champagne, Katherine!” Max teases me mercilessly as he holds me tight to his warm body and kisses my cheek with a resounding smack.
“Why?” I ask as he releases me to give Jasmine the same treatment. “Are you planning on some sort of odd Irish orgy later?”
“Oh, baby if you only knew…” He leers, causing Jasmine to roll her eyes dramatically.
“Do you need me to run back up to get Aileen and Regan?” Jasmine quickly shifts the conversation by asking after Max’s wife and three-year-old daughter. Hoping that the pivot in Max’s attention will get him to stop leering in my direction. The elusive wife-in-question is due in from their holiday home on the Spanish Riviera in time for the party tonight.
“Ach, no.” He smiles. “I’ve got a car service for her. She should be here by eight.” Max replies, releasing Jasmine from his vise-like hug.
“Good.” Jasmine smiles fully now. “Maybe now you’ll finally leave my friend alone then and she can get on to stealing away your bass player.” Max looks at me, cocking his head to one side as he contemplates this new information.
“Really?” He asks Jasmine, completely ignoring the fact that I’m standing less than three feet away from him. “Owen? But, wait! What about me?!” He finally remembers that I’m standing right next to him as he finally looks at me, wide-eyed, like a pathetic kitten.
“Jasmine…” I warn as the panic starts to well up in my chest. “Please…” But she smiles at me, clearly plotting something.
“It’s alright, Katie luv…” Max smiles sympathetically, sensing my rising panic and tries to put me a little at ease. “I understand…he’s a hot piece. We’re all warm for his form.” I roll my eyes as he breaks out in full laughter and my heart sinks fully into my knees. “Hey…” Max says, concerned when he sees my face fall, pulling me back into his warm body. “Really? That bad, huh?” I nod feebly. “It’s alright, baby.” He squeezes me tight to his chest and gently strokes my hair, calming me quickly. “I’ll make sure you get to meet him, alright?”
“Okay.” I whisper and nod feebly.
“Kate, why don’t you grab a shower? The cottage is open, I’ll be in shortly, I just want to make sure the ‘hostess with the mostest’ here hasn’t fucked up the seating plan.”
“Hey!” Max protests. “There is no seating plan!” As I nod and walk slowly to the guesthouse and the guest room shower.
“Go easy on her, okay?” Jasmine murmurs to her boss once I’m out of earshot.
“That girl has got it really bad…”
“You have no idea, Max.” Jasmine says quietly. “She has been crushing on that bandmate of yours longer than I’ve known her.”
“You’re serious?” Max says surprised as he carefully watches me saunter into the cottage.
“Yeah, the old boss used to send her as his proxy to all the industry stuff he knew Owen would be at. This went on for years. The worst was some party that he was at, and she saw him practically fucking some coked-up fashion model he was infatuated with in the corner of the room. She called me crying from the limo after she bailed halfway through. I’ve never, ever seen her like that with anyone before. Anybody else, and Kate’s as cool as a cucumber and absolutely nothing fazes her. But for some reason that bandmate of yours manages to reduce her to a hormonal pre-teen.”
“And they’ve never met before now?” Max looks at Jasmine, surprised.
“Nope. Never.” Jasmine sighs. “It’s been a comedy of errors worthy of bad Gilbert and Sullivan.”
“Well then, we really must remedy that, shouldn’t we? Since it’s about time he got knocked on his backside by an intelligent, beautiful girl who could thoroughly kick his arse.” Max winks, the conspiracy plot sealed between the two, before he starts to saunter back to the big house.
“Why do you think I made her get the really good lingerie today!” Jasmine calls after him with a cackle.
“That’s my girl…” Max snickers “See you in a couple hours!” Jasmine smiles wickedly and makes her way to the cottage to get ready.
“Are you sure I look alright?” I ask for the twentieth time in the last half-hour as I tug and pull on my dress again, fidgeting and trying not to nervously rake my fingers through my straightened hair to the point of yanking half of it out. I’ve been buffed, re-shaved and slathered in expensive and sweet-smelling lotion until Jasmine was fully satisfied that I looked like I’d just gotten out of a full-on spa treatment. I’ve got on the dress and in spite of my fidgeting, I’m feeling relatively confident in it, thanks to the well-cinched corset underneath. Granted, I will be taking shallow breaths and not eating much tonight, given that Jasmine pulled the laces as tight as I’d begged her to and in spite of her grumbling that she didn’t need to. I pull on my stiletto ankle-boots over my feet and run my hands up my smooth bare legs after zipping them up.
I’ve left the opaque tights on the guest bedroom bed only because I have a relatively short path to the main house. Though I do pull my fringy blanket over the skinny straps of the short dress to ward off the night-time chill from the bay down the hill as I walk across Max’s grounds to the party.
I meander back into the front powder room to quadruple-check my makeup and take as deep a breath as the corset will allow when Jasmine announces that it’s time to head up to the house. My hands shake and my stomach churns and I shake my head at myself when she comes in looking for me. She tells me that I look stunning and I thank her for all her help and secretly thank her for helping my ego too, which is far too fragile tonight.
Jasmine locks the cottage and sets the alarm out of habit before we quickly march up to the main house. And before I have time to register how the cold night air is tonight, think at all, or fully panic about where I am heading or who will be there, I remind myself that I actually know people who will be in attendance and I’m not going in totally blind or without moral support. And I tell myself that I also now hold in my corner quite a powerful ally in the singer, if I let him, and anything is possible.
“Jasmine?” I ask, curious. “Who’s coming to this thing? Is it like people from the office?” My concern really falling onto the idea of this territorial girl cornering me at what should be a fun party deflates me a little of all the good possibilities in store.
“Oh!” Jasmine smiles. “Nope! It’s close friends and the band family only. So you don’t have to worry about anyone challenging you for his attention tonight…at least I don’t think you will. As far as I know he doesn’t have a girlfriend or anything. Max didn’t mention one, anyway.”
“And would he tell you if he did?” I ask as we emerge from the pathway and on to the driveway near the front of the big house.
“Well, considering he offered to introduce you and all, I think you’re good.” Jasmine points out and I smile fully as we reach the front door.
We are nowhere near the first people here. In fact, I think we are officially what one would call “fashionably late” to this particular party. I apologize under my breath to Jasmine as we cross the threshold and I get my first look at the inside of Max’s house. I hand off my wrap to a hired coat check attendant as I begin to fully take in the house. Large but not overtly austere, the house is divided into comfortable spaces linked by open double doors that allow most of the first floor to become one singular flowing space. There are plenty of small seating arrangements to provide intimacy and large windows that open up views over the grounds and down to the Irish Sea beyond the end of the property line.
People I recognize by face, but have never met, mingle and chat animatedly and drink all manner of cocktails as they flow from group-to-group. Jasmine pulls me back toward the kitchen, where the wet bar is set up, while three men in bowties man the stash of liquor and mix drinks for Max’s guests. I wait by a side wall separating the bar area from the rest of the kitchen as Jasmine expertly works through the people blocking the pathway to drinks and before I know it, she has returned, handing me a champagne flute containing a perfect Kir Royale. I thank her as she suggests we go find our host. I nod in agreement then follow her through the house.
It is nearly eight thirty and most of those milling about have reached the pleasantly inebriated though far from drunk stage, as best I can tell. Boisterous conversations about gift shopping, the perils of decorating for the holidays, the band’s upcoming album and impending tour bombard us as we move through several rooms before we finally find king Max himself holding court in a smaller side room. I am immediately introduced to the guitar player, Evan and his girlfriend, Maggie, who’s smart and very funny and I take an instant liking to her as she flings zinger after zinger at our host who continually, and surprisingly, leaves the door wide open for such snappy comebacks.
Grant is there along with a long-haired gentleman, whose name I can’t remember and the two talk animatedly about all manner of modern art. It is only when the conversation shifts to the merits of the famed Irish artist Louis le Brocquy that Max formally introduces me to Grant’s friend and attempts to pull me into the conversation with my credentials as assistant to the head curator of IMMA. The reward for which are two impressed Irishmen who allow me full participation in the discussion.
Later, during a particularly heated debate between the two friends over Francis Bacon versus Jack B. Yeats, Max leans in close to murmur in my ear.
“He’s on his way. He’s running late from dropping off his parents at the airport.” I look at him and give him a little smile. “And you should know that you’ve a sharp enough brain to keep up with everyone here, him included. So, take a deep breath and relax, alright, luv?”
“I can’t…” I confess sheepishly next to his ear.
“Why not?”
“Because my corset’s too tight.” I reply honestly and without thinking as he leans away from me a little and gives me a slow, deliberate up-and-down look before smirking and bursting into hearty laughter.
“I see.” Max replies and the accompanying leer could power a small city. “Well. Let me know if you need any help loosening that up so you can breathe, yeah? I’m quite good with laces – buttons and hooks, not so much.” I look at him sideways as he chuckles at his own joke.
“Where’s the wife, again?” I murmur heatedly next to his ear as his skin heats and the conversation around us seems to die down a little and there are an increasing number of people interested in our proximity to one another and his hand resting on my thigh again. He mercifully removes it as he catches Grant’s eye and sees his friend’s disapproving look.
“She’s running late.” Max growls in return. Clearly, I’ve missed something important here.
“Well good. She’ll be here soon and then you will forget all about my undergarments.” I retort.
“Not likely, baby…” Max mutters under his breath before taking a sip of his iced vodka. But mercifully, he re-focuses his attention back on the other guests.
Jasmine pulls me back into conversation with Maggie and the recently introduced Jane, who turns out before she was the purveyor of amazing lingerie, was a classmate of Max and Grant’s, so her friendship with the boys goes farther back than many of the people here. Jane compliments me on my earlier choices before shifting the conversation to the upcoming album and tour.
And I really try not to totally fan-girl out as I begin to hear intimate details of the new album. Like the fact that only very recently recording was finally completed. And that now there is a desperate, mad rush to get the album in and out of the mastering suite in less than two weeks so it can be pressed in another mad rush and released in the first quarter of next year. There is an animated discussion over the final album title and it’s packaging, before everyone finally shifts to upcoming shooting schedules of new videos, and overly fast approaching tour plans for the coming spring that a week ago I’d never have dreamed of being privy to. As a fan, I’m completely relishing this opportunity to be a literal fly-on-the-wall to all this information, but ever mindful that this is knowledge that goes no further than this very house or these new acquaintances of mine within it.
Max has kept me close by for most of the evening, leaving my side only twice to go use the phone in private to inquire as to the location of his errant wife and daughter. I fleetingly worry that the other partygoers are looking at me like I’m trying to vie for the position of lady of the manse, but Max reassures me that he’s only trying to help me feel less awkward amongst all the people I don’t know.
Each time Max returns from his phone calls, he reassures his guests that the lady of his house is surely on her way, and in the process, belying to most here that anything is wrong. In spite of his reassurances though, I have an increasingly sinking feeling that she may be bailing out on this particular gathering and opting to stay in the lovely house on the Spanish Riviera for the rapidly approaching Christmas, leaving her husband to fend for himself in this ostentatiously large house alone. In spite of his reassurances to the other partygoers, with him parked right next to me, I can feel his heightening frustration over the situation and the continual evasive answers as to Aileen’s intentions tonight over coming home. After the second phone call, Max opens up enough to quietly let me and Jasmine know that they’ve stopped to drop off one of Aileen’s friends – who had come along for the week – in London but are now finally on their way to Dublin. He puts on a smile and grabs some more vodka as he jumps back into conversation easily – his absent wife temporarily forgotten thanks to his excellent party-hosting skills and apparent ADHD.
I am on my fourth Kir Royale and it’s coming on nearly nine-thirty when the hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle ferociously and I know with absolute certainty he’s somewhere in the house — I can feel it.
I am huddled in conversation with Jasmine and a couple of other women whose names I can’t remember when I feel the energy of the room totally shift and fully electrify as the planet seems to shift onto a completely different axis. My stomach reacts, knotting instantly and I lean in to Jasmine to whisper:
“He’s here. In the room, isn’t he?” Jasmine looks over and back toward the door as Max leans over to tap me on the shoulder, making me jump visibly in my skin. Jasmine looks back to me, eyes locking with mine as she gives me a single silent nod and I feel the blood instantly drain and pool in the pit of my belly.
“Are you okay?” She asks quietly as the other women leave our little group to go over and greet the newcomer to the party. I hear that voice, that unmistakably deep timbre smothered in a smooth Dublin-and-beyond accent that oozes over my eardrums like warm honey and I realize that it’s the same voice that has been haunting my dreams for years and I begin to visibly tremble. I shake my head, imperceptible to everyone other than Jasmine and Max, who are both watching me keenly. The former of whom looks at me with deep concern.
“You don’t have to do this tonight, you know. We can just go.” Jasmine reassures me, close to my ear.
“No!” I protest quietly. “I’m not passing up this chance. I might not ever get another one ever again.”
“Of course you will.” She says encouragingly.
“I’ll be fine.” I try and fail miserably to reassure in return, but think better of it and opt for sheer honesty instead, confessing as the panic begins to rise uncontrollably inside me; “I’ve never been this nervous before. Honestly, Jas, I’m either going to babble like an idiot at a thousand miles per hour or I’m going to completely freeze and nothing’s going to come out. Promise me that you won’t let me babble. Please…”
“Honey, I’ve known you forever and you never let guys like this throw you off your game. He’s human, just any other guy.”
“No. No he’s not…” I whisper as the panic completely engulfs me now as the enormity of the situation fully hits me and as Max reaches for my arm to turn me around so he can introduce me to his bandmate. I shiver inwardly and feel the room spin uncontrollably as I finally come face-to-face with Owen Mahr for the first time.
I’m not a particularly short girl, but my eyes seem to endlessly travel up and up until they finally reach Owen’s lips and they are full and absolutely meant to be kissed. And seeing them in person, knocks the breath audibly out of my body and I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched in the head by Mike Tyson. As my brain hits the mat, down for the count, I look up one more level and lock gazes with the most incredible pair of deep espresso-brown eyes I’ve ever seen. And while he has a bit of a geeky vibe to him, thanks to a pair of chunky, black-rimmed glasses, they only seem to magnify the size and inquisitiveness of his eyes to this new and un-breathing creature standing before him.
I can’t seem to unlock myself from his intense stare, not that I’d ever want to, to even begin to take in the rest of him. But I don’t need to. I’ve been dreaming about this man for as long as I can remember; unruly waves atop his head that any girl in her right mind would die for, in spite of the smoothing product he’s been using for years in a vain attempt to tame it. His hair is the color of dark cocoa, and frames smooth, flawless skin and a freshly shaved cheek, followed by a finely chiseled jaw. I know by memory, his strong shoulders that shift to the well-defined arms of someone who is well-practiced at his instrument, finally ending with expressive hands of a man who carries himself less like a rock and roll star and more like a highborn and privileged man of the world.
But no matter how I try, I absolutely cannot tear myself away from those intense eyes looking at me expectantly.
I haven’t heard Max make introductions, as I have totally and utterly frozen next to him while Owen speaks some sort of a greeting to me, which I vaguely see form on his lips but do not hear thanks to the blood screaming through my ears as my body heats and my knees lock. I barely manage a weak nod as the silence stretches far into uncomfortable territory and Jasmine has to prod me physically to get that much out.
Jasmine relays a brief recount of my story of coming to Dublin thus far to Owen and thanks to my utter inability to speak, Jasmine supplies answers to several of his questions originally directed specifically at me for response.
After what feels like an eternity, the blood finally starts to recede from my ears but the rampant thrumming through my veins only allows for a partial return to the party and the four of us tucked into the back corner of Max’s study. We are quickly joined by a couple of females who begin to dominate the conversation and all too soon the man of my dreams is lured into far more interesting dialogue with the two hyper-skinny, tow-haired, chatty girls who pull him away and to the other side of the room.
As soon as Owen is out of my direct proximity, my brain finally re-engages and my face falls for what I fear was quite possibly the most disastrous first meeting since the dawn of time. I look at my companions’ sympathetic expressions and my worst fears are confirmed as I excuse myself quickly to retreat to the ladies’ room before I come totally undone in front of everyone.
As I rush out of the room, I don’t see that Owen has been watching me carefully the entire time or that his eyes follow me intently as I quickly make my way through the partygoers before hastily opting to mount the stairs to the second floor, looking for a more private bathroom as inevitable tears begin to ooze down my cheeks in fat streams and I scold myself for being a completely wordless wreck in front of my unrequited crush whom I so wanted to impress with my irrepressible charm and normally quick wit.
I find a bathroom out of earshot from the festivities downstairs and lock the door as I desperately hope not to have a total and absolute breakdown in Max’s bathroom. I force myself to try to breathe deeply in spite of the tightness of my corset that, in my current state, feels like a thousand steel arms around my ribcage. And it takes far longer than I’d ever care to admit to get myself back under some semblance of control and in any state whatsoever to go back down to rejoin the party.
It is a solid half-hour before I finally feel together enough to make my way back down the stairs to look for Jasmine and let her know I’d like to leave, my tail firmly between my legs. But since she has locked the cottage and set the alarm, I can’t just head over there on my own. More than anything, I really hate being beholden to people and I start to regret letting her talk me into spending the night. I’d rather just walk down to the DART station and go back to wallow in my little room on Aungier Street.
I make my way through all the rooms occupied by partygoers, but I see no sign of Jasmine or of our host, so I assume that perhaps they decided to go fetch Max’s wife, in spite of the hired car sent to transport her home.
Unable to do much else, I acquire a glass of champagne and find a lonely corner where I can just observe the guests interacting with each other but where I do not have to get involved with conversation or worry about the inevitable questions about my presence at tonight’s party, my earlier proximity to the host or anything else for that matter. I tune in though on the animated chatter about some sort of disturbance to the party and Max’s quick and heated exit dragging a harried Jasmine along behind him.
“Fuck…” I mutter to myself.
“What seems to be the matter?” That voice takes me completely by surprise as he sits down on the narrow window seat next to me. My breath catches sharply and as it does, I cannot help but take in his scent along with it — something spicy mixed with a touch of citrus and another scent along with it that I cannot place but subtly mixes and weaves into something all his own and utterly indescribable. I close my eyes for a moment and try to memorize it before he wanders off again. When I finally re-open my eyes, Owen is watching me studiously, unsure what to make of me, I’m quite certain. I quickly re-focus my brain to answer him, as I’ve been asked a direct question and I hope that if I can find something mundane about this man in the next half-second, I may actually be able to carry on a somewhat coherent conversation.
“Jasmine.” I reply, my voice raspy as my mouth instantly goes dry while Owen’s eyes flare slightly in shock, maybe, when I speak to him directly for the first time. I have to look away and busy myself with the rim of my champagne glass before I lose myself in those eyes and all trains of thought are lost again. “I was staying with her tonight, but she’s left. And all of my things are in the guesthouse. So I can’t leave the party until she gets back.”
“You wanted to leave already?” He asks. “It’s still quite early, you know.” I look up at him again and lose myself instantly in his handsome face for what I am certain is an inappropriate amount of time before I finally get my brain and mouth to function in tandem and respond.
“Well, I don’t really know anyone all that well…and without her here, I feel a bit like an intruder.” I explain honestly and through sheer force of will, begin to find it marginally easier to talk to Owen with each passing word.
Perhaps it’s all of the liquid courage I’ve consumed tonight…
“Were you not invited?” Owen asks, perhaps deciding if he should boot me out himself.
“Um, no,” I reply and immediately begin to babble. “I was. Invited, that is. Max invited me last week. But I’ve only just met him a couple of weeks ago, so…” I shrug and take a long sip of my champagne, emptying the glass, which I hand off to a passing waiter replacing it with a fresh one from his tray.
“Well then you should relax and enjoy yourself.” He smiles a little, cocking his head to one side as if to observe me from another angle. I nod feebly and take a sip from my new glass. And I don’t know how to explain it, but Owen seems to inherently understand what his mere presence does to me, so to ease my rioting equilibrium, we just sit in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a long time, listening to the waxing and waning conversations around us as the guests get more and more inebriated and I relish my latest glass of champagne, letting the alcohol race through my bloodstream and willing it to make me bold enough to talk to Owen without all these relentless nerves.
Eventually, Evan and Maggie find where we’re sitting and I’m content to merely listen in on the conversation between the three longtime friends. Owen makes a second round of introductions and I do my best to act like a perfect, well-mannered mistress of someone’s manse, which garners another studious cock of Owen’s head in my direction. After some additional small talk, only some of which I hear, Maggie finally asks Owen the question of the night – what happened to make Max leave the party so abruptly.
“Aileen called from the airport to tell him that she and Regan weren’t coming to the party after all, that she was refueling the jet and they were headed straight back to Spain.” I look at Owen, startled. He is all too aware that all of my things are locked in the guesthouse and if Jasmine follows her boss to the Spanish Riviera, I will be totally stranded. I take as deep a breath as the corset will allow and down the rest of my champagne, exchanging it for another as soon as the waiter passes by with fresh glasses. And Owen looks on, mildly concerned that I’m now apparently planning on drinking this latest development into oblivion as rapidly as possible.
“Would Max really follow Aileen all the way to Spain on a whim?” I ask, not knowing the singer, beyond his lyrics writing, well enough yet to truly understand the subtle nuances of the relationship with his wife.
“Well, with as much vodka as he’s had tonight? Yes. Probably.” Evan replies. I nervously run my hand through my hair.
“Evan, honey,” Maggie looks at her watch. “It’s nearly one o’clock. We should get home, yes?” I look up startled. Where did the time go? Last time I checked it was only ten-thirty.
Fuck, fuck, double-fuck. My inner monologue begins to panic.
What’s wrong, beautiful? I hear him reply without words. Owen is bidding good night to his friends and telling them to be careful on the drive home up the coast. I look at him, startled. Oh no, no, no. How is this possible? How is it possible that not only has he been invading my dreams, but that he can hear the thoughts racing through my brain, too?
What? You think that you’re the only one who can hear what’s going on in that incredibly vocal and active brain of yours? I don’t know how to explain what is happening or how to shut it off and get my own mind back. And oh, shit – just how much has the man heard in my head tonight?
It’s my head, bassist. What are you doing in here? I shoot back, thankful that confidence seems to be fully in stock here. But I’m not entirely certain where this confidence has come from, considering I can barely speak to the man verbally.
Love, I’ve always been able to hear you here. Owen replies. But if you’d rather have this conversation verbally…
“I’d be more than happy to oblige.” He finishes quietly. My breath escapes me again as I’m thrown for a whole new loop and every dream I’ve ever had with him in it begins to take on a whole other and mildly frightening connotation. He leans in a little closer so as to make his next comment as private as possible and I’m nearly knocked over by how good the man smells.
“That’s a conversation for another time, Katherine. We should stick to the present issue at hand for the moment.”
I am fully taken aback at his ability to clearly read my thoughts and I lean back, needing some small semblance of distance before I do something completely irrational and irreversible.
“Now, please. You were using some very colorful language. What seems to be the problem?” I look at him, incredulous, but opt for full disclosure of my current predicament.
“It’s what we were talking about earlier. I’m supposed to be staying with Jasmine tonight, but now she’s gone off with Max and all of my things are locked and alarmed in the guesthouse. So I’ve no money to get back to my hostel and no key to get into my room and now it’s almost one and by the time I get back to where I belong the doors will be locked for the night. So I’m stuck here.” I explain as Owen’s eyes seem to light up, in spite of my situation, for this is the most I’ve managed to say to him in one string all night.
“Where on earth are you staying that you would be locked out?” He asks honestly.
“Youth Hostel. They lock the doors at one and don’t re-open until six in the morning. It’s a safety thing,” I explain.
“A hostel? That’s no place for you to be staying.” Owen says, clearly not comprehending that I’d be a girl on a tight budget.
“It’s only until I can find an apartment or roommate situation.” I explain. Owen frowns.
“So you’ve no clothes or money or anything?”
“Nothing,” I sigh. “Everything’s all locked up and I won’t be able to get it until either Jasmine comes back or I can talk to her to get the alarm code and hope for a spare key somewhere. I mean, I guess I could just crash on one of the hundred or so sofas in this place, but certainly not until Max comes back, lord only knows when…” I suddenly feel very tired and worn out from the days’ excitement and I am very ready for a hot bath and a bed.
Preferably with you in it next to me, bassist.
He looks at me, hard, and I know he heard that thought clearly in my head.
Shit, I’m going to have to watch what I think from now on.
“Alright, come on,” Owen says authoritatively, clearly having made some sort of executive decision on my behalf. He gets up and grabs my hand, sending violent shivers through my body as his shockingly warm skin connects with mine for the first time. The sheer electricity of his flesh against my fingertips makes me hesitate for a moment as he urges me physically from my spot in the window seat. Once I’m up, Owen does not release my hand, but grips me tighter, as if afraid to lose me while he pulls me along behind him and makes his way through the ground-floor rooms to the foyer, stopping only when he seems to remember it’s nearly winter and he has a coat waiting.
“Do you have a coat, at least?” He asks, looking me up and down, taking in my bare legs and shoulders with a gentle roll of his eyes.
“Yes.” I reply, stretching the truth a little and still quite unsure of his intentions.
“Well, at least you’ve that,” He says with a small shake of his head as I pull the coat check ticket from the bodice of my dress and hand it to him. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I nod, as he releases my hand. And I root myself to the spot in which I’m left in the singer’s large entryway. As I watch Owen retreat to the coatroom to retrieve my poor excuse of cold-weather defense, my heartbeat returns to a more normal pace. I note that his widening proximity to me has a direct relation to the intensity of the slamming of my heart against my chest and my quickening blood racing through my veins. I hear him say something to Grant, as the last man standing, about taking care of the house as he makes his way back to me quickly with a judgmental look on his face and I’m a little scared, unsure of his abrupt shift in mood when he reaches me and holds the folded blanket out to me like a beggar.
“You call this a coat?” Owen asks disapprovingly as he comes up tight into my personal space and my pulse jumps back up to race uncontrollably. “It’s December, you know. Nearly Winter and you’re dressed for summer.”
“It was only a short walk to the guest house.” I try to defend myself with ill-placed logic. “How was I supposed to know that the host would kidnap my friend off to god-knows-where in the middle of the party?” Owen isn’t buying it though as he sighs deeply and instead sets his own winter coat over my shoulders. But when I make no further move to completely put the clearly expensive and incredibly warm cashmere coat around me, he grabs each wrist and dresses me like a child before buttoning it up fully to my neck.
“What will you wear?” I ask, the alcohol making me far bolder than I realize. “It’s December, you know. Nearly Winter and now you’ve no coat at all.” I toss his words back at him as Owen rolls his eyes, suppressing a chuckle at my daring, and reaches for my hand again. The heat and electricity is back as his fingers firmly grip mine. My jaw goes momentarily slack as he gently squeezes my hand in his and leads me out of the house.
“I’ll be fine.” He reassures me, giving in to the small smile he was trying to repress moments ago and pulls me to his car, opening the passenger door and beckoning me into the seat. My brain clicks back into normal mode momentarily as he closes me in and walks around to the drivers’ side of the lovely vintage Aston Martin, before tucking into the drivers’ seat and pushes the key into the ignition. He tells me to buckle up as it’s a bit of a drive and as he turns the car over and cranks the heat to full, I look out the window wistfully as he pulls away from the house and out the gates onto the narrow road beyond.
Owen drives cautiously, his eyes darting over the road as if he’s looking for animals or bandits to jump out in front of us, and it finally dawns on me that I’m in a car, alone, with my dream man and I’ve absolutely no clue where he’s taking me with my no money or handbag or change of clothes. I finally find my voice and ask him that very pertinent question.
“I’m taking you home.” He says simply. “Do you have to work tomorrow?”
“What?” I ask, thrown for a loop by the abrupt shift in topic.
“You’re working at IMMA. Carol told me that she had an excellent new assistant and knew it had to be you.”
“What?” I ask again, completely thrown with the abrupt change in conversation. This man is going to give me whiplash, I swear. How in the hell does he know so much about me, anyway? He looks away from the road for a moment to clarify his comment slightly.
“Jasmine mentioned it, while you were not speaking to me earlier.”
“Oh.” I let the information process. “But you said that Carol — Dr. O’Neill — told you about me…”
“Yes,” He replies quietly. “I’ve known her for several years. I’ve a couple of paintings on loan to the museum.”
“Oh.” I let that information process as well for a moment before it dawns on me. “The Le Brocquy — The new one. It’s yours.” I breathe shallowly thanks to this knowledge and the corset.
“Yes. Carol told me you’re taking very good care of it. I appreciate that. Since I’d like it back in one piece at some point.” He smiles a little and glances at me again before turning his full attention back to the dark road.
“Why are you taking me to your house?” I ask quietly as he stops for a red light.
“Where else should I be taking you?” He asks back. “You can’t get into the guesthouse or the hostel and you need somewhere to sleep, right?”
“I don’t want to be an imposition…” I begin, unsure how to even begin to explain the level to which I hate having to rely on other people for anything, much less this.
“You’re not.” He says as if it’s the final say in the matter, before softening to clarify; “First; you didn’t ask, I’m offering of my own accord and second; I’ve plenty of room.”
“Oh.” I elect to relent without further question this time and sink deeper into the remarkably soft leather seat while I contemplate what he’s said. It seems like he knows me, understands what motivates me on a visceral level and if this is the case then he should also inherently understand why I seem to have the issues I do when it comes to relinquishing my independence.
“I’ll call Max in the morning and see if we can get your things liberated from his guesthouse, since you’ll need a change of clothes at some point.”
“Thank you.” I say sincerely and close my eyes, unable to keep them open any longer thanks to the champagne, the warmth from his coat, the car heater, and the long, emotional day. But with the voluntary removal of my sense of sight, Owen’s scent permeates my lungs and a flood of dreams from the last several weeks come back in a heated rush, warming my blood even more and shallowing my breath as I feel him push several strands of stray hair from my face while at a stoplight. His fingers are gentle and smooth against my cheek as the contact causes an involuntary jolt of white-hot heat to surge to the pit of my belly and all I want is to fast-forward to a time when propriety would allow for me to just climb him like a tree and end this mounting torture of sexual tension. Instead, I can only lie in wait and toss up a small silent prayer to whoever is listening that this scenario lies in my future.
“Eyes on the road, bassist,” I mumble sleepily as the car speeds through the dark Dublin night and I feel him turn a corner a little faster than he should. And I feel, rather than see the small smile that plays on his lips.
The car stops and starts several more times as he manoeuvers through the Dublin suburbs and I can feel him watching me at every stop light but he says nothing more as he drives us toward his metaphorical castle on the hill.
I open my eyes again just as the car pulls to the gates of the house and he reaches into a side pocket of the car door to pull out an opener releasing the dark, wrought-iron gates. And as they swing open, he slowly pulls the car through and makes a sharp left turn up the drive to the house.
There are no lights turned on along the drive, but as we wind around the first turn, I can see landscaping lights highlighting the ancient stone and stucco exterior of the house as well as several large trees which, I’m sure in summer, are stunning. The house seems fairly compact at first glance, but as we come up to the edifice, the full impact of the place hits me. The L-shaped house extends back far further than expected and there are several additional buildings, all of which are each easily larger than the house I grew up in. The grounds stretch into the blackness of the night and I’ve no clue how deep they really go in the darkness.
“I’ve got a housekeeper.” Owen says as he pulls the car into the detached garage and I make mental note of the fact that there are three other cars safely tucked into their stalls. “She lives with her husband and family in the estate managers’ house around the back. They’re away for the next few weeks for the Christmas holidays.” He explains.
“So there’s no one here but us?” I ask, a little nervous. “You’re not a serial killer or anything are you? You’re not going to go all American Psycho on me?”
Owen laughs and looks at me like I’m a little crazy. “Do you really think me capable of that?”
“No.” I admit. It appears as if I’ve found my voice around him after all. “But only because you don’t clean.” I giggle a little. “With your housekeeper out, there’s no one to get the blood out of your ridiculously overpriced sheets.”
Owen shakes his head and gets out of the car coming over to open my door before I can locate the internal handle.
“Ah, there she is,” He comments and helps me out of the car. “I was wondering when the real you was going to show up, you know.”
“It’s only because I’m too tired to care – it’s far too late.” I retort as he guides me to the house.
“Too late for what?” Owen asks as he unlocks a side door and pulls me into the dark house, punching a five-digit code into a beeping security panel next to the door and turning on several lights from switches underneath the security panel, flooding the room in warm, low, under-cabinet lighting. We’re in a comfortably large kitchen with every gadget known to man lining the countertops and a large, stone-topped prep table in the middle complete with vegetable sink and secondary produce refrigerators. I could die a happy woman cooking in this kitchen and Owen watches me intently as I take in the space. There’s a huge gas-powered six-burner stove with two ovens and a full-on griddle cooktop to go with the biggest refrigerator I’ve ever seen outside of a professional restaurant kitchen.
“Jesus…” I mutter under my breath as Owen smiles and moves in front of me to unbutton his soft cashmere coat with the silky liner that slithers against my legs and arms as he slides it off my shoulders.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He reminds me. “What are you too tired to care about?”
“Whether or not you think I’m a total smartass,” I reply absently, drooling over the mixer and old-school farm sink that looks like it may even be original to the house. Oh, the house! Crown molding lines the joints between walls and ceilings and the molded plaster ceilings are positively stunning and I’m seriously dying to see the rest of this amazing place.
“Why would you think that I would?” Owen asks quietly as he lays his coat and my blanket-wrap over a chair back pushed into one end of the prep table. He comes back over to where I stand, unable to move and regards me inquisitively.
“Well, I seem to have issues forming words when you’re in the same room with me.” I confess and fidget on my stilettos. But they do add several inches to my height, so I have an unfettered view into his stunning eyes.
“Why is that, Katherine?” He asks but makes no move to leave this spot just inside the door to his house and I am slightly nervous that if I don’t supply the correct answer that I may still wind up sleeping on a park bench somewhere. I fidget some more and look to the floor before Owen reaches for my chin and gently redirects my gaze back up to his face.
“Because, Owen.” I reply using his name for the very first time out loud and I want to say it again and again to get used to its sound on my tongue. “Because…” I can’t do it. I can’t tell him about this insanity of a crush that’s pushing seventeen years or of the first time I saw him when I was nine and declared that I was going to marry him when I grew up, or of the nightly dreams of him and I in all sorts of deeply compromising positions.
He leans in very close and I can feel the heat of his breath as it fans my cheek and the natural warmth radiates off his body and soaks into my skin warming me all over and far more quickly than any amount of alcohol or electrified heater. I sigh inwardly and try not to melt into a puddle right here in the middle of his kitchen.
“I already know why,” he murmurs into my ear. “But I want to hear you say it anyway.”
“Why?” I ask, breathless.
“Because when you finally say it, then it will all be real and we can stop playing all of these silly games with one another.” I look at him, startled and unsure of just what game we’re actually playing. But I am also trying to break bad old habits and as much as I want to tear his clothes off with my teeth and push him to the floor and just take him inside me immediately, that is something that the old me would have done and it scares me that I could so easily let myself fall into that pattern again. Because we all know what happens when girls have sex with guys at the end of an alcohol-fueled evening — they wind up sneaking out of the house half-dressed in the middle of the night in disgrace and never hearing from the guy again. And do I really want to risk that with this man?
Shit. Yes. I do. I want him to just fucking kiss me already and give me an excuse to be a wonton little groupie. I don’t care if that’s all it is right now.
“Tell me.” He gently orders again. I sigh and close my eyes for a moment, trying to rapidly build the final bridges of courage that it will take for me to make this a full confession. Before I open my eyes, the words begin to tumble out of me at breakneck speed, since I’m actually too nervous to see his reaction.
“I’ve had a crush on you for nearly seventeen years…” I admit. “And I’ve been trying to meet you for years and it is taking every last little cell in my body not to kiss you right now.” I hear his breathing stop and absolute silence envelop us and as the beats pass into what feels like an eternity, I open my eyes, afraid of what I’ll see. But he is just watching me with a concerned expression on his face, as if he’s more worried about my reaction to him rather than the opposite and I take a breath and don’t even think at all before the next words tumble out of me; “But I can’t kiss you because it will lead to other more serious things and then I’ll just be another one-night-stand and then I’ll never see you again and I don’t want to be that.”
“Be what?” He asks in a whisper.
“A one-night-stand,” I admit, whispering in return, nervously.
But shit, maybe that’s all he’s interested in…
“That’s not all I’m interested in, Katherine.” He replies, reading my mind, a little hurt to his voice. “But you’re probably right. You’re clearly exhausted and have had far too much to drink tonight.” He says, his mood shifting in a millisecond. He steps away and sets the perimeter alarms before holding out his hand to me.
“Come on, let’s find you a bed.” I look at him nervously but take his hand anyway as he leads me up the back stair to the next level of the house through the dimly lit hallways and to the master bedroom.
He tells me to stay put as he goes into his closet, returning with a t-shirt for me to wear to bed. He takes my hand again and leads me from his large, comfortable bedroom and I silently lament that I won’t be allowed to sleep next to him tonight thanks to my damned big mouth and my newfound morals. He leads me through a sitting room and into another bedroom which is connected by another door.
“This is the ladies’ bedchamber.” He explains. “When the house was constructed, the master and lady each had their own bedroom connected by a common sitting room, since they were largely about sex only for procreations’ sake. I use it as a guest room now.” My belly somersaults thanks to the topic of explanation and I have to look down at the floor to keep what little composure I have left, as Owen flips the light switch.
The room is stunning with a large, four-poster bed topped with a heavy, thick brocade bedspread. Beneath which, I’ll later find a soft down comforter in clean white. In front of the bed, is an ornate dressing table and matching chair. Another chair by the window is clearly a spot for reading with a fireplace set between the room’s two extremely tall, inset windows. A very old but lovely Persian rug stretches out from under the bed and all the way within a couple of feet of the fireplace.
“Do you want me to light the fireplace?” He asks. “It can get quite chilly in here in the middle of the night.”
“Owen…” I sigh instead, ashamed of the pleading tone in my voice. I am wrestling with the increasingly blurring line between maintaining propriety and wrapping myself around him and just ending this self-inflicted torture. He says nothing, but walks over to the fireplace to open the flue and ignite the coals already piled into the grate.
“Its’ late,” He says instead. “You should get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow.” I look at him confused and pleading but he is the very model of chivalrous propriety and comes over as if to simply squeeze my hand goodnight. But pulls it to his lips instead, kissing my palm so deeply that my eyes close and I sigh involuntarily while my fingers brush his cheek as he holds my hand to his warm, soft lips.
He finally releases me and turns to the door. It’s only then that I remember the back laces of my corset, and curse the damn thing for it clearly being designed as a two-man operation. I contemplate just sleeping in it but the idea of Owen’s hands on my skin makes me bold enough to at least request his assistance. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t turn me down flat.
“Owen?” I get out just before he is totally out of the room.
“Katherine?” He asks in return.
“I have a small problem.” I admit.
“Another one?” He sighs and I cannot tell if he’s playing with me or truly annoyed that I’m turning out to be some sort of freakish damsel-in-distress.
“Um, well I’m sort of wearing a corset and it only has laces in the back…” I begin.
“Oh,” Owen sighs and I can feel his pulse race all the way from the doorway.
“Could I impose upon you for some help? Please? It’s just a little hard to breathe and I’m not sure about sleeping in it,” I admit as he wanders back into the room warily. “I promise. No funny business on my part.” I try to reassure him but secretly hope that it won’t matter and that through the very act of undressing me, he’ll just take the decision out of my hands altogether. He stands directly in front of me and the look on his face is that of a man wrestling with his own demons of past overly fast dalliances and I try to let all thoughts go so as not to give him anything else in my subconscious to read right now.
“All right,” Owen sighs quietly, the decision made, “turn around, then.” My heart slams against my chest violently as I do as I’m told and I feel him reach out for the zipper to my dress. I think I hear his heart making the same racket as mine as he slowly lowers the zipper to reveal the deep plum silk corset, fully laced, the bow resting against the upper swell of my backside. I hear his low moan, of what I hope is appreciation, escape from his lips. But, he doesn’t try to push the dress fully off my body and I feel my ego deflate rapidly as he steels himself, then swiftly pulls the bow apart only to loosen the laces just barely enough for me to slip the undergarment off with my dress once I ready myself for bed.
His fingers pull impatiently at the laces of the corset all the way to the very last loophole before he lays his hands flat against my shoulder blades as he breathes heavily and the sheer heat from his palms over my skin warms my entire body. I sigh and feel myself sink into his hands. And oh, how I want to just lean back and press my bare skin against his chest. But he gently pushes against me and as far away from him as he can before totally releasing me.
“There.” He says quietly. “You should be able to get it the rest of the way, I’d think.” I feel my ego drop out from under me and land somewhere in his basement. And I suddenly totally and completely feel the exhaustion race through my body again for all the up-and-down emotions of the evening.
I nod, but can say nothing for fear that I will only beg for him to take me to his bed anyway and my morals be damned to hell and back.
“Goodnight.” Owen whispers and leaves the room, pulling the door shut with a quiet thump behind him as I just stare at the empty space, dumbfounded, and tears welling in my eyes for being so thoroughly and completely rejected by the man I’ve desired for as long as I can remember.