Men Like This (11 page)

She loved everything about the museum: the grand entrance, the ornate, superfluous architecture, the history of the building itself, the library accessible by appointment alone. She only regretted not having time to take in everything—they’d need days—before Jack whisked them away for lunch in Chinatown.

They arrived at an Asian-themed restaurant called The Seasons and were seated across from each other in a dark, secluded corner with a small scentless candle providing most of the light, a surprisingly intimate atmosphere for the middle of the day.

“Cozy.” Quinn took her chair and reached for the bamboo chopsticks resting on a fine cloth napkin.

Jack’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned forward with a dramatic frown. “You won’t make me request a fork, will you?”

“White bread American that I am, I do know how to use these.” With a cocked brow and ominously narrowed eyes, she held them up to showcase her expert handling. “And well.”

He sat back, the frown replaced by his signature charming grin. “Oh, dear, don’t tell me I’ve inspired you?
Death by Chopstick
.”

“I could begin research right now.”
Click, click.

Jack raised his hands in surrender. His eyes sparkled from amusement and the lit candle between them. “You win. I’ll never look at a chopstick the same again. Maybe
I’ll
request a fork.”

A waiter dressed in solid black came with a warm greeting. He presented no menu, but it turned out her companion didn’t need one.

The waiter bobbed his head with some familiarity when Jack ordered a bottle of their house Pinot Grigio, lobster rangoons, and a dozen steamed oysters and quietly disappeared. Quinn tried not to imagine Vickie sitting here in her stead, eating the same food, drinking the same wine.

Jack seemed to read her mind. “My mother’s caretaker, Dawn, loves this place. Every time we do lunch, we end up here.”

“Oh?” She glanced around at the intimate setting. His mother’s caretaker. Sure.

“Vickie doesn’t appreciate Asian food. In fact, it might be fair to say she doesn’t appreciate any food.” He grinned, once again reading her like a mystic deciphering a rune. “At any rate, I never wasted my time bringing her here. The wine has calories, the rangoons have carbs, and the oysters are squishy and gross.”

“What does she like?”

He shrugged as though he’d never considered the answer. “Coconut water? Lemongrass extract?”

Quinn stuck out her tongue. “Ugh.”

He vehemently agreed. “Thank you. I never made her breakfast, either, and if you ever ask me to make an omelet using the whites alone, you’ll find yourself back to oatmeal in a flash.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Not this girl.”

The waiter reappeared with their wine and opened it in front of them with practiced ease. He filled their glasses with a little flair to show off his expertise and left the chilled bottle on the table.

Jack sipped and fumbled with his napkin. “There’s something on my mind.” He caught her off guard with his seriousness. Jack didn’t do serious. “I’ve wanted to ask you something since we left the museum, and it’s driving me mad. Not that the trip is a long one,” he deadpanned.

She presented him with her sweetest smile. “You’re already there in my book. Ask away.”

He eyed her with an almost scholarly interest. “What’s with the maggots?”

Her mouth fell open. “Maggots? That’s your big question? I mean, I’m the girl to ask, but a Google search can probably tell you more than I can.”

“No, no, no. Not maggots in general. What’s with
you
and maggots? You made goo-goo eyes at them, Quinn. Actual goo-goo eyes. Who makes goo-goo eyes at maggots, and by everything righteous and holy on earth,
why
?”

She might’ve laughed were she not stunned by his fervent curiosity.

“I’m serious. I’ve been dying for you to ogle me like that, and you go and give it away to worms. How, exactly, does a man compete with something such as a maggot? What have the little buggers got that I don’t? I’m a sexy bloke, right? A twenty if I recall correctly.”

He stopped to watch her cover her mouth with her hand to stop the wine from sputtering out like a lawn sprinkler. She finally managed to swallow. “The answer’s not worth hemorrhaging over, I promise. They’re part of my job. I write horror. Maggots are horrifying.” She lifted her shoulders. “They aren’t star players, but I’ve yet to write an entire book without bringing them into one scene or another. The museum display gave me an unexpected punch of nostalgia. It’s been over a year since I wrote anything to do with maggots or decay, and I found it inspiring, which means something crucial. It means Clementine isn’t done yet. I’ve worried about it, wondered if moving to another genre would render me inept at my original talent, but I got such a rush from reading new information I can use and manipulate. Suddenly, I can’t wait to be done with this love stuff and move on to my next horror novel.”

Jack’s head rested in his open palm, elbow propped up on the table. “It’s remarkably easy to forget I’m with Clementine Hazel when I’m around you. I’m a huge fan, yet I forget.”

She cocked her head to one side. “A huge fan, you say? I’m pretty sure you said your mother’s the huge fan.”

“Well, yeah, sure, but I’ve got to read the books I buy for her, of course. It’s a quality-control thing. Can’t have Mum reading rubbish, can I?”

Quinn merely grinned, openly amused.

He drummed his fingers across the tabletop. “What I’m saying is, after watching you fall in love with creepy-crawlies before my very eyes, it struck me for the first time since our night in Hollywood that you are Clementine bloody Hazel. But you aren’t. You’re Quinnie. It’s the oddest thing, but I’m utterly incapable of bringing you and your alter ego together as one in my mind. I can’t look at your pretty face and imagine you writing the things you do when I can hardly
read
them. Am I less of a man for it?”

She let out a small snort of laughter. She’d had this conversation before but doubted it had ever gone quite like this. “It’s not your fault. I’ve had years to cultivate iron nerves, and it’s not nearly so creepy when you’re on the designing end. I’ll also point out they’re called
alter
egos for a reason. They’re a self apart from the original self. Otherwise, the whole purpose is null and void. That said, Clementine Hazel isn’t an alter ego. It’s only a pen name. I am Clem, Clem is me. You’re dealing with one, not two halves.”

“My brain refuses to accept that. It
can’t
accept it. Might as well tell me the sky is orange.”

“The sky can be orange.” She raised her eyebrows. “Sunrise. Sunset.”

He sipped his wine. “Poor example. What I need you to explain is how you came to the subject matter of blood, guts, murder, and maggots. Your image and your career path don’t gel.”

“You’re really hung up on the whole image thing.”

He held his wineglass by its delicate stem and swirled the contents. “I only mean I imagined Clementine Hazel a tad on the mental side. I assumed she’d
—you’d—
have to be, right? A gothic misfit with daddy issues and a collection of creepy porcelain dolls.”

Quinn frowned. Was this how her readers imagined her? “Ouch.”

“Right, sorry. But you’re none of those things. That’s my point. You’re normal, a perfectly well-adjusted adult who enjoys an ideal father-daughter relationship, and I’ve yet to come across a single doll in your flat, porcelain or otherwise. What gives?”

She mulled it over while their appetizers were delivered, and Jack divvied up small portions between them. “There’s no fascinating answer. I don’t secretly worship Satan or kill people in my basement for research. Be sure you truly want my secret because I’d hate to disappoint a fan.”

“Don’t be absurd. I don’t ask frivolous questions.”

She ignored the blatantly false statement and confessed. “It was a calculated decision in the beginning. I had no idea I’d come to love the writing style so much or become so passionate about the subject matter.”

She stopped and plucked a particularly crispy rangoon from the platter. The man of her dreams—literally, she went to bed every night obsessing over every detail of the character she’d designed after him—revealed he was mystified by her, and what did she do? Why, willingly scrub away the shroud surrounding her until there was nothing left for him to ponder over. In no time, she’d be seeing the backside of Jack’s curiosity as it turned toward some other, more formidable challenge.

She sighed and continued at his waiting expression. “I started with short stories after I had Seth and quit college halfway into an accounting degree. A little hobby to entertain myself. I wrote every genre except romance.”

He tipped his glass toward her. “Ha. How’s that for irony? You’ve come round full circle. Why ever not romance, the typical genre of choice for the fairer sex?”

“Simply put?” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with the napkin. She’d come this far, might as well tell him everything. “Motive. For every action a character makes, you have to answer the question of
why
. With romance, you’ve got love and not much else. Maybe passion and jealousy, but it’s pretty limited. People fall in love because of chemicals in the brain and whatnot. Now, people commit murder for any number of reasons, none guaranteed to make sense. There’s love, the passion and the jealousy it brings along, greed, insanity, hate, and any combination thereof.”

He nodded and chewed thoughtfully. “Essentially, with a romance you’re saying Jill loves Bob because Jill loves Bob. In your preferred version, Bob kills Jill because
blank
.”

“She might’ve taken the television remote. People are nuts.”

This time he shook his head. “Far too believable, that. In fact, it makes sense next to some things I’ve seen on the evening news.”

She pointed a chopstick at him. “My point exactly.”

“What do you have against a simple murder mystery, though? Why the graphic details? I mean, what part of you enjoys describing decapitation to such a clinical degree? You’ve about run down the list of ways it can happen, haven’t you?”

“Not even close.” She downed the rest of her wine. “Three decapitations: chainsaw, semi-truck, and
The Cannibal
, a title which speaks for itself. Though there’s been some debate as to whether it was technically a beheading.”

He made a show of shivering and snagged the last rangoon. “The semi-truck, probably my least favorite scene ever in the world. ’Bout broke my heart. You cultivate a certain omnipresent cruelty I can’t wrap my head around, like the universe itself is out to kill people. Poor bloke, after hours of gruesome and heavily detailed torture, manages to escape and wander through the woods despite his wounds. He stumbles upon the highway and he’s safe, right? He falls to the ground weeping in relief because his life is saved, and he’s going to make it. Oh, wait, this is a Hazel novel, so no, he’s not. Instead, a semi is going to come ’round the corner and hit him just so, so as to whip his head right from his shoulders. Your idea of an epilogue is the trucker stopping for gas and discovering facial remains in his tire treads. Terrible, brilliant, and gross.” He shook his head in awe. “Really, really gross.”

“A really, really gross best-seller.”

He refilled her glass on cue. “Easy on the wine, love. It’s early still.” He refilled his own, and by some unspoken decision between them they toasted silently. “Basically, you like coming up with new and interesting ways to kill people. I shall sleep soundly tonight.”

“I freely admit offing people on paper is fun. It’s the mechanics of the thing.” She paused to take the tiniest of sips. “Description is important, but what can love
do
? What does it look like, smell like? How many different ways can two people stare into each other’s eyes and dream Hallmark dreams? Blood is made for action. It sprays, spatters, seeps, drips, smears, erupts, gushes, and spews. Gore lends itself to direct and expressive writing, and there’s nothing more enjoyable than that.”

He smiled at her with open admiration. “And you said the answer wasn’t fascinating.”

“It’s mildly interesting at best. The kind of thing that never makes it into an autobiography.”

“More’s the shame, and I disagree. What you’ve done is akin to becoming an accountant because it’s practical and recession-proof only to fall in love with numbers and ledgers. Not everyone loves their day job, you know.”

She reflected on the odd change in his tone as he dressed an oyster in hot sauce and inhaled it in one quick bite.

“Are you saying you don’t love what you do?” She posed the question with a valiant effort to hide her doubt. Jack’s choice in fiancée alone pretty much told the story.

He gave her a small, lacking smile. “The grass is always greener, they say. Like any relationship, you either try harder, perhaps water the lawn once in a while, or you walk away.”

This time she didn’t bother concealing her dubious reaction. “You’re serious? You don’t love acting?”

He held out a hand for the check at the same time the waiter approached with a small black booklet in hand. “Not especially, no.” He tucked two large bills inside without glancing at the total. “Are you ready? C’mon, we’ve got places to go, my dear.”

“Well, now, hold on. This is interesting.” She had no right to ask, but when did Jack ever take rights into account when it came to appeasing his own rampant inquisitions?

“Another time.” He stood and held out a hand for her to join him.

If she were like him, she’d press until he surrendered a satisfactory answer. Instead, put off by the departure of his usual good humor, she let it go. For now.

J
ack did his best to hide his disappointment in himself.

Not too difficult given his eagerness to show Quinn the unique beauty of London’s Chinatown. He loved exploring the seemingly endless streets and mysterious alleyways full of exotic smells and strange characters, and not often did he have such lovely company while doing so.

He wished over and over, however, he’d have been more suave over lunch.

There he sat, dining with Clementine Hazel, getting remarkable insight into literary genius, and what else could he do but go and ruin it by whining like a prissy girl about his job.

His
job
, of all blasted things, the last thing he ought to have the nerve to complain about. He’d explain it to her once he figured out how to accomplish the task without making himself out to be even more of a prat.

Sundown fast approached. He plumbed the depths of his knowledge and employed a Sherlockian method of choosing their final destination.

Nicholas would’ve been like a schoolteacher guiding Quinn through the city. She’d probably visited every flashy tourist trap in the city. Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Tower of London, Hyde Park, Millennium Bridge, the view of downtown over Canary Wharf at night.

Jack wanted to take her somewhere special. Not a place you’d necessarily find in a brochure or on a bucket list of things to do while in London, a place Old Nick lacked the gumption and creativity to consider.

He hailed a cab from Chinatown with a good hour until the early fall sundown. Quinn’s hand had found its way into his
—
or perhaps his had simply taken possession of hers
—
as they exited the backseat amid the busy Camden streets, bustling with the nine-to-fivers heading home from work, while expertly dodging her many questions about where they were going.

“Hey, I’ve been here.” She glanced around, taking in the scenery but seeming not to notice the two paparazzo who’d climbed out of the taxi two cars down from theirs.

Crestfallen, he ignored them and gave Quinn his attention. “You have?”

“Sure. Queen Mary’s Gardens are across the way, right?”

He grinned and spared a glimpse for the gardens lying in the exact opposite direction of the one where he intended to take her. “Yes. You are correct.” He swung his arm due north. “But we’re going this way, to Regent’s Park. Come along.”

The park’s size ran close to two square kilometers. It meant no short walk to their destination and uphill to boot on a wide, packed dirt path. At the top, the large hill offered a unique vantage point, and he smiled at Quinn’s quizzical expression.

“Primrose Hill,” he announced. He took her by the shoulders and turned her back the way they’d come.

He’d always had a knack for timing.

The skyline of central London blossomed in the distance, striking against the golden, pinkish sky, courtesy of the setting sun. They stood for some time staring out at the panoramic backdrop of sun and steel until the pink began to fade into a deep gold and from gold to purple.

He dared a quick study of the woman beside him. He was pleased as a pig to find an openmouthed smile of faint surprise splitting Quinn’s face. He smiled, too. Take that, Canary Wharf.

He dropped down onto the grass, which had yellowed with the onset of cooler weather, and beckoned her to join him. She plopped beside him without breaking her gaze. Content quiet reigned, and he was glad to let it.

The birds loudly enjoying their slice of nature amid a sprawling metropolis, as well as students, lovers, and friends doing the same provided ambient background noise.

He considered ruining quiet moments his personal modus operandi, but to his surprise, Quinn broke their ponderous silence first.

“I’ve been here quite a while. Long enough to have seen downtown from the other side of Canary Wharf at night”
—
he
knew
it—“the Gherkin and Millennium Bridge. Despite blatant modern touches, when I imagine London, I still envision chimney sweeps and meat pies, not five-star Asian cuisine and fantastic urban skylines. This rivals anything New York City has to offer.”

His ears must have deceived him. “Chimney sweeps and meat pies? It isn’t 1842, for goodness’ sake. No, forget goodness. For
my
sake.”

One delicate shoulder lifted and dropped. “Sorry. Born and raised on Dickens. His London is my London.”

“Bloody Americans.” He ruefully shook his head. “Bloody Dickens.” He slid his arm around her shoulder to communicate there were no hard feelings and also for the sake of putting his arm around her. She leaned into him, and little else in his experience had ever fit so perfectly. Not even his best tailored Italian designer suit.

Without warning, she sat up straight and pinned him with an observing eye. “Tell me about your job, Jack.”

Balls. He shifted uncomfortably. “I had a moody moment earlier, nothing more. I can be a bit of a girl sometimes.”

“Are you trying to distract with me with blatant sexist comments?”

He let his arm drop. “Of course not.”

“It’s not fair. I’ve told you lots of stuff about myself, but I have nothing on you except a little information about your mother. You’re impossible to read, and today I finally spied some grit under your smooth outer shell. I’ve seen you upset, witnessed you hurt and I can’t wait to see you well and truly pissed off, but I’ve never imagined you . . . malcontent, I guess is the word.”

“A fallacy of which I’ve never heard the likes.”

He opted to ignore her outlandish claim. What woman
wanted
to see an angry man? Women were supposed to avoid things like angry men. Angry women, too, lest he be accused of being sexist again.

“I’ll talk if you want but not to even some nonexistent playing field. I’ve got Clementine’s number all right, but
you
? I had to practically pry information about Nicholas from your little fingers, and you won’t give me so much as a crumb regarding the book you’re writing.”

She blanched and went still.

Jack feared he’d pushed too hard. He checked a groan of exasperation and made quick reparations. “What would you like to hear, Quinnie? Just don’t ask me to start from the beginning. I’m well over thirty, and we haven’t had supper yet.”

She didn’t hesitate. “How’d you get into acting?”

“Right to the meaty part, that’s what I like about you. Push the potatoes aside and go for the chop. Mum got me started with plays and such. Not necessarily per her ambition. It was simply a means to occupy her wildly hyperactive son.”

Quinn’s eyebrows rose. “You? Hyper? Never say.”

“Oh, I say. They were loads of fun, the classes and big to-dos. The kids I worked with were a peculiar lot. Most of them, like me, had behavioral issues. Others were introverts only able to put themselves out in the world by pretending to be someone else. Many of them lived it day in, day out, but it’s not in my nature to take anything so seriously, certainly not a hobby. Even now, I brush off rejection and move on to the next gig. It’s only business. There’s usually something else around the corner if you keep at it. Sometimes it’s a dud; sometimes you strike gold.” He plucked a still-green blade of grass and stuck the root end between his teeth. “Whatever. Pay me, and I’ll do whatever.”

“Money?” She made no obvious effort to conceal her disappointment with his answer. “You do it for the money?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’m no avid student of the arts with big Oscar-winning dreams. I was a kid who needed money, and I’m a man who still does.” He held up a finger, bidding her stay her rejoinder. “Reserve your judgment one moment while I whip up a heaping mound of perspective.”

She bowed her head. “Fair enough. Continue.”

“I will, thank you. Where was I? Oh, yes, money. And dreams. I did have a few of those, but they were in the kitchen, not on stage. I love a kitchen with its gadgets and wondrous smells. Don’t you just love a kitchen?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Right. You love libraries; I love kitchens. So, I decided I’d go to culinary school, but in the meantime made great money with the acting stuff. Most kids wait tables or wash cars to make a pound. I wore silly costumes and acted outrageous. Why give it up until I had to? At home, I drove my mum crazy. She’s a sport, though, tried every foul recipe I concocted.” He grimaced, recalling a nasty pickle and herring spread gone awry.

“I’m beginning to pity her.”

He laughed. “Don’t let her get wind of it. She won’t appreciate it.”

Quinn grasped his arm with both hands. “What happened? Why didn’t you become a chef? It doesn’t sound like your mother disapproved.” She stilled. Her bright green eyes grew round. “Does it have something to do with the caretaker you mentioned earlier?” Her shoulders fell. “I’m not going to like your story, am I?”

“Not if my own sentiments are any indication.”

He’d done his years sulking about, drenched in selfish, unspoken disappointment and considered them well in the past. No trace of the old bitterness sprang up to re-stake its claim, but he disliked talking about it nonetheless. Not even his own mum was privy to his long-lost desire to be a master of fine cuisine. It seemed silly in retrospect.

The lamps on the hill had lit up, bright white orbs against an indigo sky. “You’re sure you don’t want to go home? We’ve lost the warmth of the day.”

“No, go on. I want to hear.”

“All right.” He put a hand over the one of hers still wrapped around his biceps, resisting the impulse to flex. He’d do it for a laugh if it weren’t for the subject matter.

“Well, let’s see. Perhaps a day or two until graduation I went to an audition with my friend, Willie, very much against my will. The role was a major part in some telly series, and the idea of joining a sitcom that might go on for years made me sick to my stomach. It still does, matter of fact.” He paused and smiled at her with little humor. “They say things happen for a reason.”

She nodded. “Fate. Your religion as far as I can tell.”

“Oh, I believe it right enough, and you won’t blame me a bit when I tell you why. That same day, my mum suffered a stroke. Left her partially paralyzed. It’s hard to tell it from her face, but she’s been in a wheelchair ever since. Without a father in the picture, the loss of income was a huge hit, and there’s precious little work to be had for a woman with her disability. Plus, she needed care. Forget any kind of secondary education. School doesn’t pay the bills. Quite the opposite, actually. When the callback came three days later for the part I’d auditioned for, I didn’t hesitate. When they offered me the role after my second read-through, I jumped on it. Never looked back.”

Quinn took a deep, considering breath. “One day a producer is going to want your story.”

“Maybe that’s why I don’t tell it.”

“Hmm.” She patted his arm. “I’ll admit you’ve got some compelling reasons to believe in fate.”

“Do you have any compelling reasons not to?”

She shrugged. “There are a thousand things I can’t fathom a reason for.”

He imagined Blake’s affair had popped into her head, maybe even Vickie’s, but Jack had his own ideas about what fate had in mind for the two of them. The powers of the universe only delivered the possibility, however. It was up to him to make it reality.

She seemed to brush away whatever she’d been chewing on. “But, hey, we’re talking about you, remember? I mean, it’s not what you wanted, but you can’t complain, can you? Millions of people the world over would consider it an incredibly lucky break.”

“As did I, and like many of them, my motives were purely financial. I’ve not a single regret dangling behind me. I may be happier in a kitchen than onstage being fondled by costume designers and shouted at by directors, but I certainly don’t mean to complain. I, I mean, it’s kind of, in fact, I
—
”

“Finish the sentence. You’ve come this far.”

God love a succinct, impatient woman. “When I meet someone like you, it rankles a bit. Love what you do, right? Well, I don’t. I tolerate it, I enjoy a few of the perks, but I don’t love it and I’m afraid I get right jealous of people like you.”

Her eruption of laughter caught him off guard. She let him go and leaned forward with her arms around her belly. The guffaws drew attention from other stragglers in the park.

He conceded to her outburst with a couple of slow nods. “Indeed. However, I’m hardly the first of my kind. Are you familiar with Peter Ostrum?”

She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m sure I’m not.”

“Allow me to school you on a little cinematic trivia. He’s the lad from
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
. The original, that is, circa 1971. Do you know what he does for a living?”

“If you say chocolatier, I might go into another fit.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “Large animal veterinarian.”

She narrowed her eyes, still moist with crying laughter. “Is that true?”

He furrowed his brow. “Seems a strange thing to make up in the interest of proving a point. The point, of course, being not every actor finds it their grand ambition. Some of us have other dreams. Some of us even have the wit to go after them.”

He’d successfully chastised the grinning woman at his side.

Kind of. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you, but I’m from L.A. where everyone is out to get rich and famous. A basic secretarial position requires a head shot. Your case is unusual. And amusing. And I’m sorry.” She brushed a long strand of hair back from her face. “Tell me more about your mom. How’s she handled her condition?”

“She says it made her sit still for the first time in her life.” He intertwined his fingers and let his forearms rest on his bended knees. “I suppose she was a busybody like me before it happened, but truth be told I have a hard time remembering. Seems it’s always been this way. What she really loves to do, either by choice or resignation, I’ve never been told which, is read.” He nudged her affectionately. “You, among others. Imagine. If it weren’t for her hobby, I wouldn’t have cared who you were when we met last year. I’d have been a lot smoother, certainly. It’s hard to be Casanova when you’re starstruck.”