8

Serafina

Tonight Liam is taking me to Serafina. The only other time I’ve been to Serafina, a very rude man in dark sunglasses did not "Give a shit if you write about nightlife, even if it's for the fucking New York Times." He handed my business card back to me like it was one of those donation sheets peddled by a posing blind man in the street. I hung my head and pushed my way through the throngs of would-be entrants to leave the way I came. I hadn't really wanted to go that time anyway. It was a friend of mine who was dying to get inside and mix with the Hiltons and the Keisselstein-Cords.

I never understand the allure of places like this. Why set your sights on going somewhere that doesn't want you in the first place, and then insults you by charging sixteen dollars for a cosmo? If you did get inside, you'd spend the whole night worrying that your fake Gucci would be discovered.

I'd rather my local pub, where they're always glad to see me, and would never think of charging more than five dollars for a drink of anything.

I've also got an aversion to the slick men who frequent these establishments. I can't even stand talking to them. It's always, “And were you in the Hamptons last weekend?” and “Have you been to the Mondrian in LA.?” “Screw that,” I told Chris one night, after a couple of hours at the swanky Lotus club. I was only there because I had to review it, I told him when he pointed out the obvious. “Isn’t that Madonna over there?” he said. I turned so fast my neck cranked. “Nah, you don’t care, not at all.” This is the thing about people who know you—they don’t let you get away with anything.

"Because I'm here for work! I do have an image to uphold," I told him.

So, if, in fact, it’s true that if one of those guys ever did ask me on a date, I'd rather eat my own hand, then you're probably asking why, then, I’m going on a date with a slick guy like that?

First of all, Liam wasn't wearing sunglasses when I met him, at night, in a bar. Second, he can't possibly be part of that ridiculous scene—he's British! And, third, I've already gone on a date with him to a thoroughly acceptable spot (Sushi Samba isn’t trendy; it’s a classic for Chrissake) and had a fantastic time, and so I know firsthand he is not like those other guys, dropping their jaws at the sight of pin-straight blond hair and a size twenty-three waist, sticking out between a half shirt and low-rider jeans.

Also, there’s that butt.

The food at Serafina is good enough, and I note with some pleasure, that Liam knows the difference between Blue Point and Malpêque oysters and orders his filet mignon at the perfect medium rare. Tonight he’s wearing a shirt so blue that against them, his eyes run the risk of blinding passersby with their brilliance. They might just be the eighth wonder of the world. We split the most wonderful bottle of some French Le Something 1994 Cabernet, and I am feeling, if possible, even more warm and fuzzy than when I first spotted him at the entrance to the restaurant, just a half-hour earlier.

The dinner goes by without a hitch. I can't talk about my job for obvious reasons, and so I steer the conversation to more relevant topics—mainly him, him, and him.

Thankfully, he doesn't mind talking about himself at all. Normally, I might find this annoying, but his life is so wonderfully fascinating I find myself wanting to know the color shirt he wore when this happened, what sort of toothpaste he was using at that point, whether he preferred his potatoes mashed or scalloped.

In his first year of grammar school, Liam had a teacher by the name of Mrs. Smithy, who made up a song with everyone's name in it, followed by their hobby, so that the class could get to know each other. She'd asked the students to tell the class their favorite hobby on the first day, so she could put the song together, and each child called out answers like “drawing,” “painting,” and “swimming.”

When she got to Liam, he didn’t hesitate when belting out, "kissing girls." Everyone giggled. But he had an older brother, and apparently, this was all he spoke about. Liam said he was a "sponge" back then, soaking up everything his brother thought was cool.

Obviously, the teacher asked him to select another, and to that he said, like a cautious attorney, "I'll have to get back to you.” Mrs. Smithy nearly fell over and promptly called his mother up to school.

After the meeting Liam overheard his mother telling his father what had happened. The father laughed and joked, "Looks like we've got ourselves a little gigolo, there." Liam's mother was shaking her head trying not to laugh when she spotted Liam listening at the door. He shouted, "I'm a gigolo! I'm a gigolo!" skipping about chanting the mysterious word.

From that moment on, he had a new nickname. Gigolo's mother let the teacher know that he also enjoyed the hobby of piano playing, which he hadn't—yet. So, she signed him up for lessons, the fruits of which, to this day, remain the ability to play the lower key arrangement of "Chopsticks." Wouldn’t you know it? I happen to be well versed in the upper portion! We’re due for an ensemble the next time we’re at his apartment, which is fitted with a piano; all of their family homes are now—just for the joke.

“That is one very expensive joke,” I comment.

He just waves it off, as if to say, "Money is nothing to me." And while this might normally be taken for a showy display, I find it endearing and, well, sexy—although I can't say exactly why.

When the main course comes out, we’re covering the ground of his fascinating high school years, when he became the top rugby player. Even after his thorough explanation involving a chart drawn on a napkin—a real cloth napkin! (What a loon! He said he would pay for it, “obviously”)—I still don’t get it. What’s better about passing backward?

He tells me he once had his heart broken "right in two" by a woman five years his elder. She was a neighbor—twenty-five, when was merely twenty. All the while they were having their "affair," which he called it because it was the biggest secret Gigolo's ever had, neither of them told a soul. She would make stinging remarks like "You're too young for me," and "You know this can never last," though her actions spoke differently.

Since she didn’t seem to mean them, he would toss those comments to the wind. She was merely rationalizing to herself about being with a younger man. Obviously, she really loved him, he’d tell himself. He couldn't love this much alone. Besides, she'd told him she did. Sure it would be at the oddest times—after she'd had a particularly bad day, the sole purpose of a three A.M. telephone call—but she would let slip those three words, and after so much deprivation, when Liam would hear them, they were savored. But later, it would always be the same: He'd ask her about it; she'd deny ever saying it at all. It was tragic.

I tear up at his recounting of it. Liam reaches over and collects the tears from the corner of my eye with a gentle touch.

Even his finger has a deep soul, capable of rich emotions that most men can’t comprehend.

"You can; you can," I gently persuade after he says he can’t go on with this story. “I’ve never shared it before,” he says, pursing his lips. Bravely, he recovers and forges ahead with the narrative. After she abruptly cut him out of her life, he told me, he’s never been able to bare his heart to another woman.

The poor thing, I find myself thinking. There is too much pain in the world. I resist the impulse to jump across the table and stroke his face. I declare my life’s mission: If it's the last thing I do, I will get Liam to bare his heart to me. After all, I’m a different kind of woman. I am Ab Fab; I smile at the name's creator—the boss who belongs to that other world, which is threatening my happiness and my sanity. Ab Fab. That really is funny. "Ab Fab, can you bring the faxes?" I get the urge to share it with Liam, but I don't want to interrupt his monologue on his childhood summers at his family home in Provence. It’s a good thing I don’t because he says, “I would love to take you there this summer when the weather is like heaven on earth."

I am overcome with hatred for that stupid, awful woman who took his heart and didn't even appreciate it. At the same time, I’m consumed with the desire to show him with every inch of me that I can love better than she can. I bet they never even went to his home in Provence. Score one, Lane Silverman.

Obviously, though, I cannot fall in love with Mr. Right Now Backfire. Obviously, I cannot see his home in Provence, I don't even like the countryside (although you can wear all of those great Liberty print sundresses that never seem right in the city). I’m not even close to falling in love with him.

He orders one warm chocolate cake with crème fraiche to go, and asks, would I mind if we share it at my apartment?

His place is out of the question, as his father has surprised him with a visit and is staying there overnight. "I suppose we could go,” he says, “but then we'd have to share our pudding with him."

He’s so witty, we giggle all the way to Thirteenth Street. I’m giddy with anticipation; I can barely wait to see what the hell we are about to do with our dessert. When my building comes into view I panic, though. I’m embarrassed of my tiny, dingy apartment. Then, with the distinct feeling that Omar Tuama, our taxi driver, is enjoying the view from his rearview mirror, I once again feel Liam's hot breath close to my face, and then his lips and then his tongue, and then, oh. . .

He doesn't seem to lift even an eyebrow at my rickety old lobby with its lack of chair or couch or table even, makes no mention of my ancient jiggly elevator, or even my tiny apartment. Not that I would care if he did, this being our last time together and all.

"You’ve done great things with the space," he says, looking around and tossing his jacket over the sofa arm. "It's very charming."

I return the compliment. "You are very charming. And so I will get the spoons," I say, heading for the kitchen.

"There’s no need for spoons," he says, pulling me back from the kitchen with a hand on either side of my waist.

And while I may have thought myself well versed in the things one could do with a warm chocolate cake and crème fraiche, I must now admit I’ve barely scratched the surface.

Despite what you may think, not a lick of it finds its way onto my sheets. Liam is very skilled in the chocolate and lovemaking department. And, this time, going to sleep, with nothing but my sheets around me, I don't have to think over the Liam I spent the evening with to keep myself warm. I actually have the Liam I spent the evening with to keep me warm (although I swear this will definitely, positively be the last time).

With an arm looped under my side, and another one stroking my middle, his mouth lingers by my neck. He says right into my skin. "You are a breathtaking woman.”

And the breathtaking woman and the breathtaking man fall asleep.

Not three hours later, I wake, turn, and stare at this wonder in my bed, looking adorable and so human snuggled in my fax fur throw. I lean in and kiss him gently behind his ear, meander to his cheek, and eventually, his mouth. Never does protest and say, "I'm sleeping!" as others have in the past.

In fact, nothing he says is audible at all. It's more like a hungry, language of desire that only we understand. I couldn't even explain it to you, because really, no two other people have ever experienced anything like this. It’s just too bad this will be the last time they do.