Whether my mulish reply is responsible for the change in his demeanour, or the mention of my mother, I’m not sure. He might not physically withdraw, but it’s almost as though a barrier has fallen between us. But if I’m sure of one thing it’s that the man in front of me isn’t the light-hearted tourist I found on my doorstep that night. The real Remy seems calculating, mercurial even, as his attention moves to the manila folder to the side of him.
He flips it open, sifting through the sheets of paper inside.
‘Your mother, Nora?’ His eyes are shrewd as they meet mine.
Her name was Noorah, but he hasn’t earned the right to that information.
‘What of her?’ I draw myself to the full extent of my five-foot-seven height in heels, determined not to be caught off guard by his change of pace.
‘On your medical insurance application, it states your blood type is AB positive. Is that correct?’
‘Last time I checked,’ I answer facetiously as he reaches out and grasps a silver Mont Blanc pen. He turns the page and begins jotting notes. ‘Just like my personality. A be positive person.’
It’s a dumb joke, as well as a stretch right now, but as he doesn’t acknowledge my answer, it definitely falls flat.
‘Do you happen to know what blood type your mother was?’
‘I do.’
His pen poised over the page, he turns his head, his eyes flaring angrily, his words staccato. ‘This is important.’
‘Jeez, chill out. Fine.’ I’m pleased my response sounds so unaffected. It’s so jarring to feel like I know him when I don’t really know him at all.
‘Well?’ His expression is unchanging.
‘I guess your parents deserve a refund from that charm school of yours. My mother was the same as me. AB positive. What’s this about, anyway?’
‘You’re sure?’ His eyes appear suddenly darker, and there’s an intensity in his gaze that’s a little unnerving. This isn’t the playful or languid gaze of the man who crept from my bed while I slept. And I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t make me want him any less.
There, I admit it. At least I kept it to myself this time, English or otherwise.
‘How sure are you?’
Can you simultaneously want to wrap yourself around a man while also wanting to wrap your hands around his neck?
‘I spent two years of my childhood caring for her while cancer ate her from the inside out. I’m pretty sure I know her blood type.’
There is so much of this time marked indelibly on the walls of my brain. Her diagnosis, our tears, our denials. Clinic visits. Chemotherapy. Radiotherapy. The way she cried in my arms as the so-called love of her life bailed on her following her diagnosis, but not before he’d emptied the little she had in her bank account. The last in a line of men who promised her the earth and delivered nothing but dirt.
The death of a parent is the natural order of things, so they say. But no kid needs to see their mother wasting away.
‘I’m sorry.’ His words are delivered with a softness that contradicts his firm expression. ‘I don’t mean to be unfeeling, but this is important.’
‘I don’t see how. I also don’t understand why I’m here.’
‘That makes two of us,’ he murmurs, turning away and jotting something down.
I can’t have heard that right, can I?
‘What are you doing?’ I try to get a glimpse of the notes he’s jotting down when he suddenly flicks the folder closed.
‘What I’m doing is thinking.’ He drops the pen to the desk, his head suddenly bowed. His hands grasp the edge of his desk, his knuckles so pronounced I wouldn’t be surprised to see the glossy wood snap.
‘It looked like you were doodling to me,’ I find myself babbling. ‘Are you one of those people who draws little hearts and stars in margins while you’re thinking?’ I know I am, though I’m more a flower-doodling girl. ‘Or maybe you’re nervous about something?’
‘No,’ he answers, laughter lightening his voice. ‘Why, should I be?’
And oh, my God, for the first time since I walked into his office, I get a glimpse of the man I found on my doorstep that night. A flash of white teeth. The playful grin.
‘What I am,’ he says as he begins to loosen his shirt at the cuff, ‘is relieved.’ A silver cuff link drops to the desktop, and he begins to fold the brilliant white fabric back. I feel like I’m watching something intimate; something that should only be available by pay per view.
‘Is that supposed to be reassuring?’ My voice lacks conviction and strength, and I’m not sure if I mean his verbal statement or the shirt folding one, or even the way he’s looking at me like I already belong to him. My gaze falls to the watch on his wrist; the same one he wore that night. The weathered leather strap, the masculine face. It’s at odds with the rest of his appearance, yet it’s somehow completely him.