Christopher Nicole - Her Name Will Be Faith

“So, I won’t get there until afternoon. See you then. Maybe you’ll have worked out what’s happening. By my book, both those storms should have been biggies.”

“So maybe there’ll be a real biggie this summer,” Richard said. “Give you something to spot. See you.” He was on too much of a high to care about hurricanes right that minute, even if he knew he should. He had encountered JC in the elevator only yesterday afternoon, and the great man had remarked, “Where’s all this hurricane activity you promised us, Richard? Seems the goddamned things can’t get off the ground. Or do I mean the sea? Haw, haw, haw. But it’d make people more interested in these chats of yours if we were to have something to hang them on to. Right?”

The old fool appeared to think he could conjure them out of thin air, Richard thought. But JC’s excesses didn’t really matter; tomorrow he was lunching with Jo Donnelly. So she was a married woman. But then, once upon a time he had been a married man.

Richard Connors replaced the telephone and switched on his television screen: he had the morning off, and Julian was doing the ten o’clock forecast. Julian was coming along well — even if there was nothing to report. There was another tropical storm, just off Martinique, and this one was being named Christopher, but Richard didn’t expect it to do much — it was already small and tight, and yet without hurricane force winds. It was being the damnedest spring, the hottest in New York for some time, and with summer only a few days away — and yet muted hurricane activity. A summer, he realized, which could leave him with egg all over his face, as he had confidently predicted, on the air as well as to his superiors, that there would be several major storms this year.

A summer which could end with him on his way back to Florida!

His ebullience of half an hour ago had faded, as it had a habit of doing when he found himself trapped in the minute apartment which was all he had been able to find. The fact was, he wasn’t a homemaker, at least on his own. He had moved in here a fortnight ago, and boxes of books remained stacked in a corner waiting for him to put up shelves. The place would look less bare when he had hung his pictures, but he didn’t want to do that until he had redecorated the room — he couldn’t live with that hideous shade of orange, and he hadn’t even decided what color would be an improvement. He leaned over and took a can of Budweiser from the box beside him, pulled the ring, and gulped a couple of mouthfuls. The bedroom had been easy to fix; he’d spent most of his time on it, working at odd hours, and felt quite pleased with himself. It had been his first attempt at Do-It-Yourself. He had also got his music center working; it had been difficult to get the speakers in just the right positions in such a small area and he had had to be satisfied with a compromise — but he’d hardly listened to them: good music needed to be shared.

Bedrooms also needed to be shared. When Pam had finally walked off with that over-muscled piece of charred flesh, and they’d agreed to split, he’d been quite keen to sample independence again, have only himself to please, and get away from the constant emotional strain and bickering of a dead marriage. He had visualized himself as the happy bachelor, dating pretty girls when the mood took him, or staying late at the studio if he chose without feeling he was giving Pam an excuse for spending the night out with some pick-up. He had conjured up pictures of cozy evenings alone with his sort of music, his kind of TV program, hamburger in one hand and beer in the other — comfortable and contented. Well, just about every evening since moving in he had had his music, his TV, his beer and his hamburger available — but what the hell had happened to the contentment? He’d pondered over the question long enough to know the answer: he was lonely for a woman. What about the pretty girls? The NABS building was stuffed with them, everyone eyeing him over their typewriters or round their coffee machines, offering him a lay any time. Closer at hand, there was Jayme, just dying to get him between the sheets.

The trouble was that he was too damned choosy, and he was not really into one-night stands. He wanted the same woman there, every night, to talk with, discuss the day. Someone with common sense and intelligence. Companionship was what he was after, even more than sex. A companion to eat with, walk with, go to the theatre or art exhibition with, and still be a pleasure to sleep with. He had met only one woman since coming to New York who could fill that bill. A married woman with children. To get her, he would have to play his image to the hilt. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, with Josephine Donnelly. But at least they were lunching together. He could feel his way.

They ordered pizzas, salad and Frascati again, as if they were both consciously trying to recreate the rapport of their first meal here. It was too hot for the English two-piece she had been wearing on the previous occasion, but Richard loved her in the crisp pale turquoise cotton dress, with its full skirt. Loved her? That was ridiculous; he hardly knew her.

“…interviews. When school finishes for the summer…” He let her chat on, hardly listening, just watching her. She seemed more brittle than the last time they’d met — tired, perhaps.

A word sank in. “Vacationing in Eleuthera? That’ll be fun.”

“It is,” she agreed. “All the family will be there… well, nearly all.” A shadow had passed over her face.

“But your kids will be there with you,” he prompted. “You never did tell me their names.”

“Owen Michael and Tamsin.”

“Cute. How old are they?”

“Ten and eight. Have you any? Oh, no, I remember…”

“Wish I had, in a way, but it’s probably just as well I don’t, with the divorce and all that.”

“That’s true. Was it…” She hesitated before asking the question which had immediately leapt to her tongue. “Very traumatic?”

He shrugged. “I was told it could’ve been a lot worse. We both wanted out at the same time, and having no kids was a great help.”

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. She had not come here today to think about her own problems — rather to escape them. But of course they were inescapable now. And hideous. Just for starters, there was no chance, even if Michael would admit they no longer even liked each other, much less loved, that he would want out from his children any more than she could contemplate abandoning them. Richard was clearly waiting for her to say something, so she asked, “What’s it like being single again, after years of marriage?”

He was about to tell her it was great to have freedom again, all those trite quips one usually trotted out when asked that question. Instead he said, “Awful. I hate it. I never dreamed how lonely it could be.”

Jo shook her head in amazement. “That’s incredible. I’d have thought you’d have any number of girl friends.”

“Don’t you believe it. Oh, there are lots of girls, yes. But…”

“What have casual girl friends and bright lights to do with sharing TV suppers with your favorite person?” Jo suggested wistfully.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “You know?”

All at once she was nervous. The conversation had crossed that invisible dividing line between professional colleagues casually discussing personal matters, and two people striving for at least mental intimacy. He had begun to bare his soul to her, and he was inviting her to do the same in return. Well, she thought, with some men it wouldn’t matter, and she was in the mood to do just that — but this one was far too attractive, and right at this moment she was far too vulnerable. She laughed. “What married woman doesn’t, occasionally? My husband spends most of his time yacht racing. Now tell me what you’re going to say in your first hurricane chat.”