Constance met Chris for a pizza that evening. He’d been overseas for the past two months and this was the first time she’d seen him since his return, although they had exchanged messages and a few, hurried calls. She didn’t normally socialise during a trial, but it was the weekend, he’d been keen and she had to eat.
When, after twenty minutes, their pizza hadn’t arrived and her mind turned to her long ‘To Do’ list, she began to think this had been a bad idea.
‘You’ve checked your watch six times now,’ he said, refilling her glass with fizzy water.
‘I’m sorry. I…I’m a bit preoccupied.’
‘It was my fault. I pushed you. We can just leave if you like. I can make you something quick at my place or we can just call it a day. I won’t be offended.’
Constance smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. Chris hadn’t pressed her that hard to come out with him; he’d asked and she’d accepted. It was nice that he understood though. He was probably the first man she had dated who so openly accepted that her work was important and might distract her, even before he knew much about it. And he was willing to take the blame for the failure of the evening. Both attributes were refreshingly attractive. But he had now given her the choice as to what to do next and she wasn’t in the mood for decisions. The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want to mess things up with him.
At that moment, the waitress appeared from the kitchen and set their plates on the table. Constance picked up her knife and fork and began to saw her way through her pizza crust and Chris followed suit. Thirty minutes later and she found herself accepting an invitation to join him for dessert in his flat, which he said was only around the corner. She told herself not to pass up the opportunity to see where and how he lived; personal space could reveal so much about a person.
Chris’ flat was at the top of a Victorian terraced property and the sun was just beginning to set behind the rooftops opposite, so that a yellow glow bathed the lounge.
‘I have ice cream,’ he said, waving two different tubs of Ben & Jerry’s in Constance’s direction, ‘or strawberries, or both? And I can offer a hot drink or a dessert wine.’
‘Dessert wine?’
‘A gift from a client. It looks expensive.’
‘You get presents from clients?’
‘Not often. But we installed this special drainage system for their hotel.’
‘I’m pretty full from the pizza, actually,’ Constance laughed. ‘I’ll just have coffee, white no sugar, if that’s OK. And I can’t stay too long.’
‘I know. You said. Relax. I’ll put the kettle on.’
But Constance found herself far from relaxed. She didn’t want to sit down and wait for her coffee, she wanted to explore, to dig around, to delve below the surface. That was why she had come, wasn’t it?
The one adornment on the otherwise white-washed walls was a large black-and-white photograph. It showed eleven men – she counted them – sitting on a huge iron girder, each one wearing an oversize cloth cap, their feet dangling over the edge and a gap of hundreds of feet to the tightly-packed skyscrapers below. Only the man on the furthest right, who was holding an empty spirits bottle in his hand, appeared to have even noticed the camera. The others were all otherwise engaged: smoking, chatting or eating, completely unaware of the danger they were in. And she’d been afraid of a few cows.
‘I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but I’ve always loved that picture,’ Chris had returned with her coffee.
‘Where was it taken?’
‘Manhattan. They were building the Rockefeller Center in the early 1930s, part of a programme to revitalise the area. Apparently it was staged – the photo – but you wouldn’t know it. It’s why I decided to become an engineer.’
‘How come?’
‘I saw the photo in the window of a shop when I was a kid and I loved it. And I woke up one day and thought I wanted to make buildings. I know that’s not quite what’s happened, but that was what started me off on this path. And I said to myself that as soon as I got my own place I would hang a copy of the picture on the wall, to remind me. So there you are.’
‘A man who keeps his promises,’ Constance said.
‘I hope so.’
As Chris didn’t seem to mind Constance’s snooping, she approached the narrow shelf above the radiator, where a model of a windmill sat, made entirely from matchsticks. Although they must have been glued together, it was impossible to see any joins, so neatly had each piece been attached to the next. Constance inserted her little finger into one of the four tiny blades and spun it around.
‘Is this your work, then?’
‘You’ve picked up on the theme. ‘It’s... I’m not a train spotter, before you ask. I just… I like making things, that’s all.’
‘Making things is good,’ Constance said. ‘I have a friend who’s a carpenter, but he gave it up to sell life insurance. You might be my only friend who makes things now.’
Chris smiled. ‘My last girlfriend told me I’d be useful in an apocalypse. That’s when I first noticed things going wrong.’
Constance smiled at him and he looked away. Then he sat down on the sofa. She finished examining the model and then replaced it carefully in its appointed space. There was a silence then, aching to be filled.
‘Connie, look. I don’t want to mess things up with you,’ Chris said. ‘I…I really like you. I thought about you loads when I was away. You’re clever, you’re beautiful, you have a great sense of humour, you care about your work. That’s what I know so far and I want to get to know you better. But I’m not sure how you feel about me and I don’t want to make an idiot of myself, you know. I probably already have. So…if you want me to just be the friend who makes things, that’s really OK, but I was hoping for something more, you know?’
Constance looked through the window at the sinking sun, then at the coffee sitting waiting for her, neatly positioned on a coaster. Chris was not like other men she’d dated. Maybe because he was already established in his career, had his own place, understood where he fitted in the scheme of things. And he was certainly much tidier than Mike had ever been. And she liked him – she knew that already. Who would have thought that anecdotes about water pressure and dams and sewage treatment could be entertaining? It was just…
‘I think I’ll skip coffee,’ she said.
Chris’ shoulders slumped and he looked away again. She picked up her bag and walked towards the door and then she paused, one hand on the latch.
‘I had a really lovely evening,’ she said. ‘And I’m not used to people coming out with what they think, especially when it’s so flattering. But my head’s all over the place with this trial. If you can wait for me, just a few days, then…please. I missed you too, when you were away. I missed you a lot.’
As Constance left the building, she wondered at her reticence. Chris was the best thing to happen to her, on a personal level, for years, maybe ever. And as her mother delighted in reminding her, she wasn’t getting any younger. But at the moment when Chris had told her how he felt, had opened up his heart to her, and she’d been on the point of responding, Greg’s face had flashed before her eyes. How could that be?
Even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. Because her embarrassment that morning at Judith’s flat had been for the same reason. She had spent months encouraging Judith to take Greg back, not saying anything too obvious; outright praise for Greg would almost certainly have raised Judith’s hackles. Instead, every now and again, she’d drop his name into the conversation, mention thoughtful or clever things he had done, draw Judith’s attention to how his businesses were flourishing. And of course, she had kept in touch with him herself; the odd drink or dinner, which she’d enjoyed more than she wanted to let on. And that was the problem. She’d been there to advocate for her friend, her partner in crime, but she couldn’t help but succumb to Greg’s charms herself.
She realised now, in this moment, that she loved the way Greg looked; his unkempt, curly hair, often neglected so it grew long, his over-large frame, simultaneously full of latent power and grace, his voice, low and even and soft. When she thought of him, her heart rose up in her chest. But Greg wasn’t hers to love. He belonged to Judith. If she hadn’t known that for certain before now, it had been confirmed to her, twice over, this morning, as he had hovered with the coffee pot, his devotion to Judith blatantly on show. She must bury any feelings other than friendship for Greg and never let them surface.