Helpless (6 page)

             
Jason flops back down near me and hands me my drink.  We call out ‘cheers’ and clink.  I suck mine down fairly fast.  I think I better get this party started so he doesn’t ask me about being his guide again, at least until I am sure about the sex.  I lean in and kiss him.

             
Ok.  What do I make of this?  He didn’t pull away.  I felt his lips soften a little, but he didn’t put his arms around me.  He didn’t lean in.  I wasn’t rejected, but I sure wasn’t jumped on.  I’m a frickin’ model.  No one has not wanted me.  I am at a loss and I pull back.  I can’t help it – I am clearly showing confusion on my face.

             
Jason’s face is close to mine and he gives me a small smile.  He reaches out and tucks some auburn hair behind my ear.  Then he leans in and I think he must have just been slow on the uptake and we are going to get busy now.  Wrong.  He gives me a gentle kiss ON THE FOREHEAD.  Really?

             
“What the hell was that?”  I blurt out before I can stop myself and figure out a more dignified response or way to handle this.  I am out of my element.

             
“That was a kiss on your pretty forehead.”  He didn’t seem ticked off that I was getting pissed.  Ok – I’ll just push him now, this is getting ridiculous.

             
“Listen Jason.  I don’t have time to play games.  Let’s hit the bedroom and have sex like you expect, I’ve had a long day.”

             
He cocks his head at me.  Takes a breath.  “You are stunningly beautiful.  But I didn’t write that post online for sex, I really just wanted a lovely girl to show me London.”  He paused to smile at me again and then said, “I still do.  Can we meet for a late breakfast and then do some sightseeing?”

             
I don’t move or say anything.

             
“Leah, you have to know you are beautiful.  But I don’t sleep with someone just because of how they look.  I don’t expect that from you.  All I want is a fun time here and I haven’t had time to make friends on my own.  So I hope you understand that if it was just a question of sex, we’d be in bed right now.  But I haven’t had
just sex
since I was a sixteen year old boy.  What I want is to walk around with you and hear your witty comments on London.  You are a pretty, clever girl.”

             
Wow.  How can I be nasty about that?  I still want to be nasty though, I didn’t get what I wanted.  I frown.  Yet I can’t bring myself to tell him to piss off.  I actually do want to spend the day with him tomorrow.

             
“I hear London in summer is splendid, won’t you be my guide?”

             
I get up to leave.  I still haven’t said anything.  He holds the door for me, asks if I want him to call a cab for me.  I say the Fleming always has some out front.  I’m in the hall.  I can find no way out of this with me still coming out looking like a rich bitch.  So I give up.

             
“London in summer?”

             
He nods at me. 

             
“Fine.  I’ll show you London in summer.”

I am a little restless when I get back to my place.  What’s new, right?  I can’t fall asleep right away. I keep thinking of what he said - I haven’t had just sex since I was sixteen. We’ll I’ve
only
had just sex.  Was he judging me?  But it sure didn’t feel like it when he was smiling at me and talking slow and saying really nice things.  I didn’t see any disgust in his eyes.  So maybe he was just flat-out telling me the truth.  You know, a regular conversation.  I don’t really have them, people either just want to have sex with me because I am stunningly beautiful or they want something from me because I am rich and/or famous.  No one has just talked to me since maybe 2
nd
grade.

             
This is what is going on in my mind as I drift off to sleep.

             
The sound of my alarm wakes me up.  It is not some jarring thing like those poor working blokes have to wake up to.  Oh my no!  After all, I am the star of all my jobs.  I can show up late and they just have to wait for me.  (Of course, I don’t show up late, I don’t want to get a rep for being a difficult diva.)  My alarm is one of those new age Zen things, shaped like a tall triangle made out of some kind of stone.  It has a light inside and the light gets stronger while the alarm starts out as soothing background music and increases in volume while the light also increase in brightness.  It wakes one up nice and slowly. 

             
I stretch and feel the sheets against my legs.  I feel luxurious this morning for some reason. 

             
I bolt out of bed.  My date,
um
, my
um
; whatever this is.  I have to get ready for Jason.  I actually feel a little excited.  I feel like I am going to have a good day.  I can’t remember ever waking up and feeling like I was going to have a good day.  Sure, I wake up and know I am going to be smashing, enchanting and take home a wad of money.  I wake up knowing others are going to envy me and want to be like me.  But feeling like I am going to enjoy the day?  This is really weird in a good way.  This is how I have read young people in their 20s are supposed to feel.

             
A voice in the back of my head tells me to settle down.  This feeling is too good to be true.  I have been excited about things before and it all crumbles.  Besides, I barely know Jason.  I must be going on pure hormones; there is nothing to base this good feeling on. 

             
Yet I just can’t seem to listen, I am almost dancing while I try on clothes and toss them on my bed.  I switch on the TV to catch some local weather while I play dress up.  Looks like a perfect summer day, the kind that people call off work to enjoy.

             
I find I am actually out front by the Marble Arch early.  I have on Roman styled sandals, walking shorts (so they aren’t slutty short, but they are tight to show off my butt), my top is a camisole style with lace trim and a medium green color.  Green shows off my eyes, my skin
and
my hair.  Green is my go-to color. 

             
I realize the sun is shining on me.  Did I put my sunscreen on?  Yes, whew, a physical feeling of relief rolls over me.  I actually feel it.  I picture my legs being a different color.  Hopefully the artful application of sunscreen in various thicknesses will even out the tanning that I am sure to suffer today from just walking around.  I move into the shadows of one of the smaller arches and look down the road for a sporty red car. 

             
“Looking for me, Leah?”

             
I start and look behind me.  Jason is standing behind me.  I smile.

             
“I hope you don’t mind, I left the car behind.  Parking is maddening, and most of the places will be so crowded with tourists, we would have to walk anyway.  I bought us day passes on the underground – we can travel with the masses.”

             
At first blush, I am disappointed.  Out of the corner of my eye I see a guy checking me out.  That reminds me how well I show in crowds, and suddenly mass transit sounds great.  Jason is going to know basically every male in London thinks I am hot.  Is that shallow?   Well, it’s what I got.

             
“Have you had breakfast?”

             
“Yes, I had toast and an egg.”

             
“An egg? As in one?”

             
“Yes.”  I am puzzled at this question.

             
“You’re going to have to keep up with me, Leah.  Let’s go grab a big farmer’s breakfast, there is no way you can keep up with a man like me on one single egg.”

             
My stomach likes this guy.  It is rolling around trying to get my attention.  My brain is in a panic.  I do want a farmer’s breakfast.  I also want to keep my modeling jobs until I have bank rolled an obscene amount of money. 

             
“I…well…that’s all I usually have, unless it is some citrus fruit.  I don’t think I could eat more.”

             
“Let’s make a deal then.  We get right to the tourist thing, but you eat a decent lunch.  Not two mouthfuls like you did last night, and seemingly this morning.”  He cocks his head and looks at me.

             
“Deal.”

             
He holds out his big hand we shake on it.  I’m laughing and he is smiling.  He then puts his hands on his hips and looks right in my eyes.

             
“Now, my dear guide, where are we off to first?”

             
“You will want to do the really iconic places first, I think.  Then we can hit the authentic spots that only real Londoners know.  So I figured we would start with the Tower Bridge.”

             
He nods and we head for the underground.  This is fun.  No faking it, not weird.  We have a purpose for today and that is making this really easy.  I chat as we walk toward the Thames.

             
The river is quiet, just sparkling in the mid-morning sun.  There is something about water that all people seem drawn to.  Maybe, if Jason is around for a few days, we should go on a cruise up the river.  I snap out of my thoughts, I have to play a good guide to keep this guy interested.

             
“When I first moved to London, I thought the Tower Bridge was called that because it has what I called two towers on each side of it.  Then the bridge part stretched between them high in the air to allow big boats to pass under.  Turns out it is called ‘tower’ because it is very close to the Tower of London.  We’ll go there next.”  I point to the Tower of London, shining white in the late morning sun. 

             
“How old were you when you moved to London?”

             
“I was fourteen, moved here from Texas.”  We are now strolling along the walking path on the Tower Bridge, looking off into the river and moving along with a modest crowd of site seers.  I stop cold at the rush of emotions that crash through when he says what he says next.

             
“It must have been difficult to make such a big move at that age, changing friends and schools at that age is torture for anyone.”

             
He said it casually.  It hits me like a hammer.  I don’t know how to respond, so I say nothing.  I have repressed all such introspection.  I don’t want to feel the pain.  I don’t want to think about it or be reminded of it.  I push all the hurt back down.  I refuse to pull it out into the light.

             
“Oh, it was my choice.  I had been living with my mother and wanted to spend time with my father.”

             
“Ah, I see. Well, that’s good.”

             
Thank heavens; he is not pushing for more details.  So I can push it all away again and keep moving forward.  No one wants to delve into the dark and hurting spots all alone, and alone is all I have ever really been. 

             
To break out of these thoughts I rush to a street vender and demand that Jason buy me a little British Flag to hold, I tell him I want it so we really look like tourists.  He laughs and we each pick a little one out to hold.  It breaks the shadows in my mind and we are back in tourist mode again.

             
The Thames shimmers below us.  I put my Versace sunglasses on.  They have lenses so dark they are almost black and no one can see my eyes.  It usually throws people off to look at me when I am wearing them.  They can’t tell where I am looking, they have no idea if I am paying attention to them or not.

             
The day is starting to warm up.  I notice that Jason is also wearing shorts.  Not as tight as mine, but they are showing off his manly, sporty legs.  Nice.  He has also just put on his sunglasses.

             
We decide to take a guided tour to listen to the history of this historic bridge and get the fully story of the tower, as I only know it is also called the White Tower, but not much more.  Jason seems to be soaking up the history, the use of the building as a fortress, the battles over who had control of the White Tower, which is really a sprawling castle-type thing and not in a tower form at all.  It is cool inside and I am enjoying the tour.  I flick my dark sunglasses up on my head.  I find that I am holding hands with Jason and often lean into him as we stop at various spots and listen to another tidbit about something that happened in the way back when.

             
We joke and look for the ghost of Anne Boleyn.  Lore has it she haunts the chapel of St. Peter as well as the Tower of London, roaming around with her head tucked under her arm.  We hit an outside café and Jason is insistent that I actually have a full plate of fish and chips.  He goes for the same.  Being from Texas, I am comfortable with vinegar over my fries, they put vinegar in chili and other dishes there.  Jason is trying it that way for me, he made a face at the thought of vinegar, but my pretty-please face won him over.  I know there are fewer calories in vinegar than ketchup, I don’t say that, but I tease him into eating it my way.