CHAPTER NINE
ABIGAIL
I walked around the living room of his apartment, glass of wine in hand, taking in all of the fine art and a bookcase full of books I was sure he'd never read. Oh, the spines were cracked and they looked well worn, but in LA – the land of everything artificial – you could purchase things that looked weathered, like books, to create the illusion of being well-read and cultured.
Everything about his place screamed “show piece” to me. It was as if he'd put together this posh, gorgeous apartment, filled with beautiful pieces of art and other conversation pieces simply to impress what was probably a revolving door of women to his bedroom.
Harry's place was more loft-like, with exposed beams, a lot of red brick, and an open floor plan that allowed me to see him in the kitchen from where I was in the living room. The place was gorgeous and very tastefully decorated – I had to give him that.
Harry was busy in the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon around like he was conducting an invisible orchestra as he listened to classical music while he cooked.
“Tell me something,” I said as I walked back and leaned against a thick, brick column.
He turned to me, giving me a smile. “Anything.”
“This place,” I said, waving my hand around. “It's beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“But I have to wonder, is it all for show? Is it all just to impress the women you bring home?” I asked. “Like all of those books on your shelves – you have some classic pieces of literature. Ever read them?”
He gave me an even look and a wry little grin. “Every single one of them,” he said. “Some of them more than once.”
“Is that so?”
He nodded. “Absolutely,” he says. “Would you like me to give you a book report on my favorite?”
I shrugged. “Not necessary.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, that smug grin on his face again. “Because I can tell what you're thinking.”
“Oh? And what am I thinking?”
“That all of this,” he said, waving his hands around, “is nothing more than a prop, bait I use to reel the women in and get them hooked.”
“Oh, is that what I'm thinking?”
He picked up his glass of wine and leaned against the column, close to me. “It is,” he said. “And what's more, you seem to be thinking that I couldn't possibly be this well-rounded and cultured, that I don't spend time admiring beautiful pieces of art or reading a good book because I'm too busy admiring a beautiful ass or a good pair of tits.”
I looked at him and couldn't suppress the smile on my face or hold back the laughter that bubbled up within my throat.
“Is it that obvious?”
He shrugged and took a drink of his wine before speaking. “More than obvious,” he said. “But I would ask you this – can't I be all of the above? And if I am, what's wrong with it? I'm still relatively young. Should I not be allowed to enjoy my life? To indulge in all of those things that I'm passionate about, be they art, books, music – or even women?”
He flashed me a million-dollar smile that made my breath catch in my throat as he turned away and moved back to the stove, stirring the sauce in the pan. It was a good question. Maybe I was being a little too harsh, a little too judgmental. Of course, a person had a right to do all those things they enjoyed and were passionate about. I guessed my problem was that other than the non-profit, I didn't know what inspired me. I no longer had any ideas about my own passions.
The fact that I was nothing without my job – that I enjoyed nothing other than my job – was really underscored with that little speech. It was like a kick to the gut.
The doorbell rang, saving me from slipping further down the rabbit hole of my thoughts. “I'll get that,” I called over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “It's probably my folks.”
“Thank you – darling,” he called back to me, chuckling to himself.
Harry was obviously a man-whore and had a long line of women, but at least he knew himself and was honest about it. At least that much, I could respect about him. I got to the door and opened it to find not my parents standing there, but a young woman instead. She was blonde, had a tight little body, and small, perky tits. She wore a tight top, a short little skirt, and ridiculously high heels – in other words, she was exactly what I took to be Harry's type.
Which immediately made me think that Harry had double-booked the evening.
“Who in the hell are you?” the woman asked me.
“Mortified, apparently,” I said. “And you are?”
“Shanna,” she said. “Harry's girlfriend.”
She stressed the last word as she looked me up and down, obviously judging me – and finding me very much lacking. Without waiting to be asked, Shanna barged into his apartment, pushing her way past me and headed straight for the kitchen.
“Come right in,” I said, closing the door behind her.
I glanced at my watch, my folks were going to be there in less than twenty-minutes, which meant that Harry needed to clean up this little domestic issue rather quickly. Harry turned around, the smile he used to charm my mother on his face quickly vanishing when he saw the petite little blonde headed his way.
Intrigued by the coming drama, but also very aware of the time and stressed about it, I moved toward the kitchen to watch it all go down. I did so enjoy indulging in trashy reality TV now and then,– and it didn't get more any trashier than what I was about to see.
“Shanna,” Harry said. “What are you doing here?”
“I got tired of waiting for you to call, Harry,” she snapped. “Like you promised you'd do.”
“I'm sorry, Shanna,” he said. “I've been rather busy lately.”
She turned to me, giving me a look of pure disgust. “Yeah, I can see that,” she spat. “But really? You'd choose that over me?”
I smirked and shook my head. The girl was obviously very young and very immature. “No offense,” I said. “Just in case you were wondering.”
Harry looked over at me, giving me a look that said, “you're not helping.” I grinned at him and tapped my watch to remind him of the time. He nodded.
“Shanna,” he said. “I am going to have to ask you to leave. I've got very important dinner guests coming and –”
“Oh, so you just fuck me and kick me to the curb,” she cried. “Is that it?”
Harry shrugged. “I wouldn't put it so bluntly,” he said. “But there was no implied relationship between us. I thought we were just two people looking to enjoy a little fun for an evening.”
“You son of a bitch,” Shanna wailed, her body shaking as she sobbed. “I thought we had a real connection. I don't go home with just anybody, you bastard. You used me.”
“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Harry said. “That wasn't my intent.”
Despite myself, I couldn't help but feel a little bad for the girl. Intentional or not, Harry had obviously hurt her. And for me, it only underscored what Kirby had said about unrealistic expectations, especially when you go home with a man on the first night.
He reached out to take her hand and she pulled away from him violently. She looked at him with eyes that radiated fury.
“Don't you put your hands on me, you son of a bitch,” she said. “Ever again. You're going to pay for what you did.”
Shanna turned and fled, leaving the door standing wide open behind her in her wake. Harry looked over at me, an awkward and almost embarrassed expression on his face. He cleared his throat.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
I laughed. “No need to apologize,” I said. “That was more entertaining than an episode of Real Housewives.”
He gave me a rueful grin and a shake of the head. “That was –”
“None of my business,” I said.
“Hello?” my mother's voice cut through the air of tension in the room. “You really shouldn't leave your door open like that, Harry. You never know what kind of crazies might just wander in.”
“Case in point,” I muttered underneath my breath.
“I heard that, Abigail,” my mother said.
I looked over at my dad who stood behind her, barely able to suppress his own laughter.
“I say that because we just saw a young blonde girl running out of this very building,” she said. “She was crying and screaming something about cutting somebody's – well, you know – off. Obviously, a very disturbed young woman.”
“Obviously,” I said, giving Harry a level look.
He grinned at me. “I'll definitely be more careful about closing the door,” he said. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Honey?” he said to me. “Will you seat everybody? We're just about ready to eat.”
“It smells wonderful in here,” my mother remarked. “Like a real gourmet restaurant. Abigail's apartment only ever smells like Pop-Tarts and macaroni and cheese. I'm glad she's learning what good food is with you, Harry.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, draining the last of my wine. I was going to need a lot more.
I had to admit, the meal smelled superb. Apparently, in addition to being a world class man-whore and talented surgeon, Harry was a very talented cook. We sat around a very elegantly set dining table. Tall candlesticks stood in the center , and Harry had even broken out the fine china.
As I looked at the table, I found myself wondering if he ever cooked for any of his hook-ups before and whether he'd pulled out all the stops for them like he was for me. I gave him a smile as he walked over and refilled my wine glass. He'd obviously intuited my need for more alcohol to get through the evening.
“Thank you, sweetie,” I said. “You read my mind.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” my mother said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a bottle of wine. “We brought a bottle for all of us to enjoy as well.”
Harry took the bottle and looked at it, nodding approvingly. “A Stony Hill Chardonnay,” he said. “I've only had this once before and remember being very fond of it.”
My mother beamed at his praise. “We got it on one of our trips to Napa.”
“Excellent choice,” he said. “It will pair well with our dinner.”
“And what have you made for us, Chef Harry?” my mother was tittering – and making me nauseous in the process.
“We're going to start with an antipasti plate before moving on to Caesar salads,” he said. “And for a main course, I've made a wonderful veal piccatta with steamed vegetables and a garlic mash.”
My mother clapped her hands together, absolutely about to explode in delight. “Abigail honey,” my mother said. “I hope you were taking notes; maybe you can cook something for us sometime.”
“Yeah, I'll get right on that,” I said and drained half my glass of wine in one swallow.
The conversation over dinner was lively, with Harry and my mother again doing most of the talking. As usual, my father and I were engaged in our own quiet little discussion about everything not relationship-related. He was as into this scene as I was and I could tell he would have much rather been at home, watching a game or something. I was definitely more like my dad personality-wise.
But my mother and Harry seemed perfectly compatible – they were both outgoing social butterflies. He regaled her with stories about his work and she told him stories I'd heard a million times before. My father looked at me and gave me a sly little smile.
My father and I cleared the dishes and put most of them into the dishwasher as my mother and Harry continued to chatter away. If they even noticed we'd left the table, they gave no indication. They were so caught in talking about politics, current events, and of course, I was appalled to hear my mother steer the conversation in the direction of relationships and marriage. Very sly, mother. Very sly.
With the table cleared, we sat back down and I was counting down the minutes until this little dinner party could come to an end.
“I think your mother might be a little more fascinated with your boyfriend than you are,” my dad whispered.
I shrugged. “I think they'd make a cute couple.”
“I heard that, you two.”
We looked up to find my mother looking back at us with an expression that said she wasn't amused.
“Who's up for dessert?” Harry asked brightly.
“Dessert?” I asked, feeling my heart sink. That was going to add at least half an hour more.
“Oh, that sounds lovely,” my mother said.
“Tiramisu,” Harry announced.
“Oh, I love a good tiramisu,” she replied. “Homemade?”
Harry gave her a sarcastic little smile. “Would I cheapen this entire evening by feeding you something I didn't make myself?”
If it would get my mother to leave sooner, I wish he would.
“Honey?” Harry asked me.
I gave him a smile and got to my feet, following him into the kitchen. The one downside of the open floor plan of his place was that I had no way of telling him to put their dessert into a doggie back and kick them out – because they were right there.
He smiled at me as if he knew what I was thinking and simply gave me a small shrug. We plated up the tiramisu and delivered it to the table. I had to admit – it was actually pretty good. Harry was indeed a good cook – the entire meal had been amazing.
There were a lot more layers to this man than I first realized.
Thirty minutes stretched to forty-five as my mother continued on with stories that were not only old and not funny, but were clearly meant to embarrass me. Or in her eyes, endear me to Harry. Because yeah, there's nothing like hearing humiliating stories from our childhoods to make somebody fall in love with us.
Finally, thankfully, the evening drew to a close. It had been the longest and most painful few hours of my life. Although, Harry seemed to have really enjoyed himself.
“Thank you for everything Harry,” my mother said. “This was exceptional. Truly exceptional.”
Harry leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “It was my pleasure,” he replied. “Perhaps –”
“Thanks for coming, Mom,” I cut him off loudly.
“I think –” she started.
“Big meeting tomorrow,” I interrupted her. “Have to get up early.”
As we walked my parents to the front door, I saw the wheels already turning in my mother's head. She was looking for a way to finagle another dinner date with us. I practically pushed her out the door, and my father did me a solid by taking her hand and guiding her away.
“I'll call you soon,” I called after them. “Thanks, Dad.”
When we closed the door, I turned around and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh.
“Well,” Harry said. “I think that went well.”
I looked at him and smirked. “Maybe you should be her boyfriend.”