Cosmopolitan on Ice

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She didn't want to go. To be precise, she didn't want to get up, and get dressed, and to leave her cottage - with Holyoake inside. It would make more sense if they were still in bed, she always seemed to struggle with untangling out of his bearhug - the man was so warm and smelled so nice! - but at the moment they were mannerly eating lunch, he was reading something on his phone, and there was a significant distance between their bodies. And yet...

The man needed to work, she reminded herself. And she had a date. A date you wanted, Tina. With the man of your dreams. No, seriously! Dr. Edwin Montjoy was exactly what Tina had always looked for in men: he was decent, considerate, soft-spoken, charmingly old-fashioned, and intellectual. Liv had done some digging and had sent Tina a detailed email. The man was almost too good to be true: no criminal record, not even a speeding ticket; one long committed relationship in the past, the chick dumped him for a richer man; he taught and was generally loved by his students, and respected by his colleagues. Liv's social media search had shown that his only hobby was participating in pub quizzes in the local establishments, such as The Oak and the Shield in Fleckney Woulds. In her email Liv said that in her opinion Dr. Montjoy was exactly the man Tina needed. 'Someone transparent, stable, reliable, unambitious, and safe,' she wrote. Tina assumed that in Liv's eyes he was the perfect man to support Tina's writing, which was what Liv mostly cared about. Except, there was now an issue with Tina's writing.

"I'll go get dressed," Tina muttered and got up.

Holyoake looked up from the screen. A sudden thought flashed through Tina's mind. 

Ask me to stay.

Ask me to stay with you. It doesn't matter that you'll be gone in four days. It doesn't matter that it's different between us. I'm not asking you for more. Just tell me to stay. She realised she was begging in her mind. Come up with something. Tell me I have to bake more biscuits for you. You think I haven't noticed, but I know you've been nicking them from the tin. Ask me to stay. Pretend it matters to you. Just out of some misplaced possessiveness. Just because you don't want to share my attention. Or just simply question it... and I'll stay.

"Have fun," he said lightly and looked down at his screen again.

Tina exhaled, put her mug in the sink, and walked out of the kitchen.

***

"Good afternoon," Edwin greeted her, and she smiled at him.

Now that the mycologist stood in front of her - on the other side of the street - her temporary soppy madness was gone. Good, Tina, because one worries for your sanity! What was this melodrama just now? And to think of it, say, if Holyoake threw a jealous fit, wouldn't you have told him it was none of his business? Exactly.

"Hello, Edwin." She gave him a small wave, and he laughed softly.

"You look lovely as always, Tina."

She did put a tad of effort into her appearance today: a bit of eyeliner, a cute hat with a pompom, and a shorter tailored jacket. She wasn't particularly fond of her looks, but she had long slender legs. And an exceptional arse, according to John Grabby Hands Holyoake. Shut. Up!

"Thank you, Edwin."

"How's your back? I've been concerned for you," he said with an appropriately worried look.

"Oh, much better. I'm back to my usual flexible self."

As proven by that time on the kitchen table last night. What's the name of that position again? The Mermaid? Shut. Up. Shut. Uppity. Up.

"You do seem in a better mood as well. Has something fortunate happened?" he asked.

Tina threw him a look from the corner of her eye. Blimey, how is this possible to be single for twenty-nine years - minus the two and a half years with August - and then to have two absolutely gorgeous men in one's life?! Look at this one! He's like Jeremy Irons in The French Lieutenant's Woman, except for the dishevelled locks and facial hair. And at home she had– Nothing. You don't 'have' anything at home. You're shagging a man worthy of the wildest fantasies that you now decided to write, for some reason - but there's no 'having' anything involved.

"Nothing much, but–" she said and chuckled nervously. "Edwin, I'll use this opportunity to confess something," she said and unconsciously took a step towards him.

"Tina," he said in a soft reproach, and she jumped back.

"Sorry. But what I was saying, Edwin, is that I lied about what I do for living."

"Oh." He frowned, which made him look even more like Jeremy Irons. Hm, maybe even Peter O'Toole. Tina had always loved O'Toole.

"You see, I'm just so used to hiding my secret identity, so I simply say it without thinking, but I have to confess that I don't work in Rivendell Publishing as an editor." Tina chewed her botom lip. "I'm an author."

"Oh." He gave out a relieved laugh. "I have to say your words 'secret identity' had me worried, Tina."

She chuckled. "Did you think I was a spy?"

"Well, you are a confident, worldly woman," he said in a flirty voice.

I'm sorry, who's a 'confident, worldly woman?!' Her? Tina? Tina the Spazz is a confident, worldly woman?! Ha ha. Seriously?!

"What could you possibly write that requires a secret identity?" he asked.

"Mystery novels." And porn. Actually, it's just porn these days. Shut up! "But they are rather popular, and at the beginning of my career I was trying to avoid attention, so I came up with a pen name." Deep breath in, and– "It's Evelyn Cox. I'm Evelyn Cox."

The mycologist's face continued expressing polite interest. Oh. Oh. Bugger. Right. He didn't read mystery novels.

"I sold over a million copies of my books in the last seven years," she said, and a pause hung over the street.

"Oh my goodness," he exhaled. "You– You're a modern Agatha Christie?"

"Not exactly," Tina said with a shy laugh. "I'm more of a– Raymond Chandler."

No recognition appeared on the mycologist's face. Bugger.

"Dashiell Hammett?" Tina offered an alternative. "Have you heard of him?"

"I think I've seen the film." He gave her an apologetic smile. "That's the one with the bird? And that stern unemotional investigator?"

"Yes, you're thinking of The Maltese Falcon. That is the genre." Tina nodded. "The so-called hard-boiled school of detective fiction."

"So, your books are full of betrayal, unfaithful wives, and cunning private investigators?" he asked with a disbelieving chuckle.

"More like tired policemen and ordinary people committing crimes out of despair or boredom," she said. You're quoting that review to your third book that you liked so much, aren't you, Tina?

"I– I have to say–" He drew a deep breath in. "I'm not surprised at all, Tina."

Wait– what?! He's not– surprised?!

"I've started suspecting a while ago that I might have mistaken when I assumed you were– well, like me," he said - and stopped abruptly.

Tina dug her heels into the cobblestone.

"Pardon?" she asked.

He stood for a few seconds looking under his feet and then lifted his face. Tina saw a deep crinkle between his eyebrows.

"When we spoke last year, you seemed– I don't know how to put it, Tina. You seemed similar to me in lifestyle and interests. You said you were working on a book in your free time. And that's what I do when I'm not teaching. And you claimed to be introverted. I believe the word you used was 'a hermit.' Meanwhile, I look at you now–" 

He rubbed his forehead with his gloved hand.

Oh. Oh? Is heNo! No way he's

"You're so... cosmopolitan!" the mycologist blurted out. Why does it sound like he's accusing her?! "You're a published author, and now it turns out you're also probably a millionaire!"

She wasn't. But– what?!

"You've forgotten about our date because you were working, and I understand, you're dedicated to your work, but I– I just can't approve of such lack of work-life balance!" he continued in an anxious tone. "It is endlessly modern of course, but I'm an old-fashioned person. And I just can't see how we can– merge our lifestyles when they are that different! In a purely hypothetical scenario, if we entered a relationship, would I be expected to attend galas and award ceremonies with you? I simply can't!" he exclaimed and seemingly started hyperventilating.

Tina watched him with her mouth half-open. This is a dream. You're dreaming, Clementine. There's no reality in which a man would dump you because you're 'cosmopolitan.'

Wait, is he dumping her?!

"And your relationship with John Holyoake!" he continued talking in an emotional voice. "I looked the man up. He's a publishing mogul! If he is the kind of people you surround yourself with, what do I have to offer? And if you refused him, I simply can't see why you went out with me."

Yeah, this is definitely a bizarre dream. A hallucination. She's in a mirror universe.

"Even if you aren't being charitable and you do truly find me attractive, I'm simply not urbane for you, Tina!" he announced tragically. "I think it's best we part ways right now."

Is he bloody kidding?!

"I apologise if I have given you a wrong impression!" he squeaked - as much as a male with a baritone could squeak. Well, a lyric baritone. It's Holyoake who had the baritone. "I think it's best if I– go. Good night, Tina."

Tina couldn't believe her ears - and her eyes! He had just turned around and sped up away from her like a Regency maiden escaping a charming rascal!!!

What?! What?! What the bloody hell– what?!

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