The Complications of T (2 page)

“I should go,” I finally said, crossing my arms awkwardly.

The woman swiped a hand across her face and reached for the mobile that lay on the carpet in front of the sofa.

“It’s only past six,” she said in a soft voice, squinting at her phone. “There’s no rush. Sleep it off some more. There’s some extra-strength Advil in the medicine cabinet, and if you finished the water I left you, take another bottle from the fridge.”

I shifted on the balls of my feet, unsure. It was tempting… I could sleep for another few hours, then leave clear-headed. She didn’t seem crazy and hadn’t stolen anything, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she knew my name, I could have sworn that she didn’t even know who I was. I glanced down at the phone in my hand and saw that I had a whole slew of messages waiting for me. Most of them were from my agent, but I saw that a few were from Claire. I quickly unlocked my phone and thumbed them away. I typed up a brief reply to Greg:

I’m fine. Met up with a friend. I’ll msg you later.

Greg was probably tearing out what little hair he had left. I held the button down until I could swipe the power off on my mobile. I didn’t want to see his reply or anything else for that matter.

Fuck ‘em.

“You sure you don’t mind?” I asked the woman, my voice sounding hoarse and more full of gravel than usual.

She smiled tiredly and shook her head.

“Go to sleep.”

I took her advice on the painkillers and gratefully padded back to the bedroom in my socks and lay down in the soft, cloud-like bed.

W
HEN I OPENED MY EYES next, I could hear rain spattering the big windows beyond the long white curtains. My head was throbbing, but the Advil I had washed down with a quart of water seemed to be shielding me from the worst of it. I turned over onto my back, and I noticed then that the walls of the bedroom only extended about nine or ten feet into the air. I could see boards, struts, and beams, as well as a dented, rusty ceiling fan high above me. It was definitely an interesting place to live.

I glanced over at my mobile and decided to ignore it for just a little longer. Gingerly, I lifted my head, and when it didn’t protest too much, I pushed myself to my feet. Looking down, I realized that I must have spilled a beer on myself, judging from the size and colour of the stain on my shirt.

Dismayed, I looked at the clean, crisp white sheets, hoping that I hadn’t left behind a mess. I would buy her, the woman whose name really couldn’t be Tim, a whole new set of sheets regardless. Without her help, my drunken arse would have been smeared in the papers, and good luck coming back from that; my career was already half down the bog as it was. I wiped a hand down my shirt, trying to smooth it out, and patted my hair down with the other. In doing so, I got a nose full of myself and grimaced.

Yeah, two new sets of sheets… finest Egyptian cotton.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, I made my way to the sitting room to the sound of someone typing frantically. My heart seized when I realized what it could mean. The woman could have taken pictures of me passed out in her bed. What if she was sharing them over the Internet?

Christ, how could I be so trusting?

However, when the woman glanced up from her laptop with a friendly smile, I unclenched my fists and tried not to panic. My phone messages had been unread, my wallet intact… I was still wearing my clothes. Maybe it would be all right.

“I should go,” I said. “Ah… for real this time.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“Okay,” she replied after a moment. “But… Trust me when I say you’re not intruding and that you’re welcome to stay for a while.” Her voice was lovely: melodic but low, and with a hint of an accent.

I took a few steps into the room. Past the desk where she was seated, the wall of windows showed a grey sky, heavy with rain, and an uneven skyline of dark rooftops. I felt a ridiculous pang of homesickness for a moment but shook it out of my head before Claire or Joshua crept back into my thoughts.

“Are you okay?” asked the woman. Her black hair was swept back from a high forehead, and the sides of it were shaved nearly to the skin. Like a mohawk but not quite, with a few little braids hanging down on one side. She had light brown eyes, and they were wide with concern.

I chuckled and shoved my hands deeper into my pockets.

“Yeah. I will be.”

“I mean it. Stay as long as you want. I don’t mind.” Her smile returned. “Not that I’m trying to keep you here… You just seem a little lost.”

I hesitated before I nodded.
Time heals all wounds, doesn’t it?
But I felt like I was imposing, no matter what she said.

“I really should go.”

“Do you want to take a shower before you leave? Clean up a bit?”

I frowned at my soiled shirt and plucked at it. That
did
sound nice. She had one of those brilliant rain showers with multiple heads. However, I didn’t fancy getting back into my dirty jeans afterwards, so I shrugged.

“My clothes are as dirty as I am,” I said regretfully. “Thanks anyway. Really.”

She grinned a little wider as if she realized how much I wanted to be convinced.

“You can use my washer. I’m sure I could lend you something to wear in the meantime.”

“Yeah?” My tone was blatantly hopeful, and she laughed.

“Yeah,” she replied and pointed down the hallway. “There’s a stack of towels in the linen closet. Take one of the black ones—they’re new and really soft. The washer is in the bathroom… There’s a sliding closet door in there. While you do that, I’ll find you some old sweatpants or something.”

“You sure?” I knew I was belabouring it, but my ego felt a little shredded.

She very nearly rolled her eyes at me, and I finally had to grin.

Three

I
F A SHOWER COULD BE magical, this shower was certainly that. I was in there a good ten minutes before it occurred to me that maybe hot water was really expensive in Canada. I really had no idea, seeing as I was always booked into fancy hotels when I was abroad. Hurriedly, I rinsed myself—the soap smelled really good, like cedar and nice cologne—and turned the water off.

The towel turned out to be huge and just as soft as she had promised, and I watched my clothes spinning round and round in the tiny washing machine as I dried myself. Then I opened the medicine cabinet and took down the bottle of pills and shook out another capsule, washing it down with some cold water from the tap. Without even thinking, I grabbed the deodorant and put some on. When I realized what I was doing, I stopped and frowned down at it. It was the same brand as mine, though with French writing on it and in a different scent: men’s deodorant.

I glanced around the bathroom, a little perplexed. The walls were olive green, and the counter and sink were black marble with an industrial-looking, silver-toned faucet. The only art on the wall was a set of small photographs set in boxy black frames—close-up shots of some sort of machinery.

The bathroom was nicely decorated… but not very
feminine
, given my host. I knew that it was sort of sexist to think in those terms, but I couldn’t help it; I was used to Claire and her floral patterns and fruit-scented soaps. I looked in the medicine cabinet again and found no perfume, only cologne. In fact, the only clue that a woman had been here at all was a black pencil and mascara in a little drawstring pouch by the sink—which I agonized about opening until my curiosity won out. Then something dawned on me: maybe this wasn’t her apartment at all. Maybe this was her boyfriend’s? Or maybe she was house-sitting… I flattened down the cowlick at the back of my head before I opened the door and peered out. The woman was still at her laptop across the vast sitting room and didn’t look up as I left the bathroom.

In the bedroom, a pair of faded black sweatpants waited on the bed. I slipped them on and then contemplated the T-shirt the woman had left me. It was an old Metallica shirt. I’d owned the same one and seeing it now, on this stranger’s bed, made me smile. However, when I tried to put it on, it was obvious that it would never stretch over my shoulders without ripping. With an ear cocked towards the door, I quietly opened the closet and saw that it was filled with button-downs that wouldn’t fit me. Obviously the flat belonged to a much smaller man.

Well, I’ll just go without.
I figured if she knew who I was, chances are she’d seen me without a shirt before. I looked over myself again in the mirrored closet door and straightened my shoulders.

With my second foray into the sitting room, the woman looked up. Her eyebrows rose a little at seeing me standing there shirtless; feeling a tad self-conscious, I crossed my arms and shrugged apologetically.

“Too small,” I explained.

Her brow smoothed out, and she shook her head though her eyes looked strange when they met mine.

“I’m sorry. I thought it would fit. I could see if I have anything bigger?”

“Please, don’t put yourself out on my account. I’ll be fine… It’s not like it’s cold in here. I mean, unless you don’t
want
me traipsing around half-naked… ?” I smiled crookedly and she chuckled, shaking her head.

“No, it’s ok. If you’re fine, then I am fine, and we will be
fine
,” she said. The woman had dimples in both cheeks when she smiled. She also had nice lips.

Nice lips…
The memory of kissing her came back to me, and I felt my face catch fire.

“Listen. About last night… If I acted inappropriately in any way, I am very sorry. I apologize for my behaviour…” I was babbling, very nearly wringing my hands like some old peasant in an historical. The woman’s cheeks went a little pink, but she waved at the air.

“Forget about it,” she said, and we fell into an awkward silence. I looked around, rocking back on my heels as I tried to think of something to say.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked. “There’s some made.”

“Oh yes!” I answered, relieved. “That would be lovely. Really… lovely.”
Go on, Stu. Say
lovely
again.
I cleared my throat and held out a hand before she could get to her feet. “I can get it. Thank you.”

I went over to the kitchen and started opening cupboards. I chose a bright-red mug out of the motley collection and then poured myself some of the dark, wonderful-smelling coffee.

“Shit… I’m sorry I don’t have any milk. I could run out…”

“Oh! No, that’s fine. Really. Thank you.” Without bothering her for some sugar—she hadn’t offered after all—I lifted the mug to my lips and took a gulp of the scalding coffee. The pain must have shown on my face because she laughed again, and the throaty chuckle brought a sheepish smile to my face.

“This is bloody awkward, isn’t it?” I said.

“Sort of.”

We both laughed this time, and then I took a more careful sip from my mug.

“So,” I said once I’d swallowed. “I just want to thank you again for rescuing my pathetic self from a bad situation.”

“My pleasure,” she replied. “I’m glad I was there.” Her cheeks went pink again before she turned back to her computer.

“What is it that you do?” I asked, hoping to stimulate a conversation. I found her interesting. Yes, she was rather pretty, but there was something about the woman that felt oddly
familiar
. It was obvious that she was shy, and what people don’t realize about me, despite my fame, is that I am too. Two shy strangers alone on a rainy, grey day in autumn. It felt like the beginning of a romance movie.

“I’m a writer,” she answered.

I really wanted to ask for her name again, but it felt like I’d missed my chance. Then, I noticed some mail peeking out from under a folded magazine on the kitchen island, and I stepped up to get a better look. I thought I might be able to spare myself some embarrassment.

“What do you write?” I asked, prompting her. “Novels?”

The woman laughed.

“Ah. No,” she replied. “I write movie reviews.”

“What? For a living?”

When she nodded, my eyebrows shot up, and I put down my cup.

Anyone who made enough money to live off writing movie reviews was someone I must have heard of—unless of course, she only reviewed Canadian movies. That’s when I glanced down at the mail on the counter and saw that the top few letters were all addressed to the same person: Timothy Leblanc. I frowned. She had introduced herself as Tim.
Timothy… ?

As I contemplated this new, confusing information, I noticed that the sticker on the magazine was to a T. White. It occurred to me then that “Leblanc” translated to “the white”… but that meant…

“Wait. You”—I blinked at her, not believing what I was about to say—“are
Tim White
?”

Tim White, an influential movie reviewer whose acerbic wit and shrewd observations made him a favourite among those who believed they had discerning tastes.

Tim White who had ripped into the last two movies I starred in, writing such gems as “A story for mindless masses that delight in being spoon-fed flavourless, money-grabbing pap” and “insipid, paltry nonsense that has all the charm of a visit to the dentist”.

The woman nodded, looking a little apprehensive.

It made no bloody sense. Was she posing as a man? Why would she have introduced herself as Tim? I thought about the bathroom. The man’s deodorant. The cologne. She
was
rather androgynous. I only realized I was staring openly at her when she broke eye contact and turned to look out the window.

Had I assumed something about her? Hell, had I assumed that…

“At the risk of sounding like a complete idiot,” I said quietly, “are you… a man? Male?” I remembered my first impression of her and wondered if my drunken brain had spotted something crucial about my rescuer.

When a crease appeared on her brow in a slightly pained expression, I thought I was wrong. But then she met my eyes and nodded mutely.

“Oh.” I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. She… he…
Tim
obviously hadn’t been born male. And… bloody hell, I was confused and uncomfortable and felt like I would just melt into the floor; I desperately didn’t want to do or say anything stupid.