Spanish Place

Harry looked up as the cab pulled away. His eyes followed it to the end of the street, paused where it paused just before it turned onto Cromwell Street. Then the car turned and he let them fall to the ground again.

It had begun to rain. The cab was blue and that didn't seem right in a city of black cabs with engines that sounded like cans of marbles being turned over in perfect rhythm.

A lot of things didn't seem right. This was stupid. Some line from "Casablanca" about a guy standing in the rain with his guts kicked in ran through his head. Things didn't seem real either. This wasn't a movie. The air was cool, the rain was wet, there was no popcorn and there wouldn't be a happy ending and he wouldn't take his date home. He looked up. Don't show the hurt.

The sign said "Spanish Place". It was about five eighths way up the side of the building, where they put street signs in this town. He knew that but this was the first time he had noticed the sign. He knew why. Up until that cab had turned the corner, he had had no reason to note street signs. But now she was gone in the cab and he had two more weeks of work in town and home had what this place didn't; obstacles, some seemingly insurmountable, to their ever having had what they just did here.

She hadn't kissed him goodbye. It wasn't right. Not in public, no one had known for the past ten days and no one was going to find out now, didn't matter how nice it would have been to have one last kiss goodbye. Lou, Harry knew, was still sound asleep. Craig was probably up but glued to the BBC, catching the late trading numbers out of New York. Who was to know?

But they hadn't kissed. More her call than his. And now she was on her way and he was standing in the rain wondering what next?

Last night had been the last party night for the group. When they all had gotten together for a last dinner and drinks and close the bar in the hotel because, for fuck's sake, the pubs close when?

They had had a lot of nights like that, after the two groups had gotten to know each other; Harry's, a bunch of magazine editor types in town to help talk up the idea of a U.K. edition of the book. She the head of a reseach library in New York going through the Hulton Archives trying to coax it's keepers into unwrapping kraft packages of glass negatives that had not seen light since the thirties and getting a volume discount scan rate before the silver plate oxydized more history away forever.

The desk clerk was Italian. She did not speak English well but she tried. She got room numbers mixed up and when Harry asked to call Craig to see if he wanted to go out to a museum, he had connected with her instead.

"I'm sorry. I think I got the wrong room. Well, actually I know I got the wrong room or Craig's been keeping an awful big secret from me."

She laughed.

"You're American. You're not one of those three guys who were checking in ahead of us, are you?"

"Are you one of the two women behind us? You were with that really attractive blonde woman who argued about the room rate."

"I'm the blonde."

"I know. I recognize your voice."

"Do you always hit on women you don't know on the phone?"

"Only when I'm in a foreign country and my chances of not being tracked through Homeland Security are better."

She laughed again and asked what he wanted. Nothing actually, I'm sorry but I did get the wrong room. I was trying to get Craig to go to the Imperial War Museum with me.

"How about we get some lunch instead? I'm fucking jet-lagged and starving and I've been laying here trying to sleep but just keep feeling shittier. Might as well eat."

"Might as well. I'm in the lobby. I'm the guy with the square glasses and black t shirt."

"I'm Chris."

Days were spent working. Nights, the two groups got together after dinner for drinks or dessert in St. James street.
It was the usual pattern. Craig or Lisa gave up first and headed upstairs. Then Lou or Harry or Ellen would retire, depending. If Lou went on his own, that was fine. Harry and Chris would hang around for a while longer. If Lou looked to be staying around, Harry would leave. Chris left later. They were all, except for Harry and Chris, scattered throughout the floors of the hotel. But they didn't take any chances. They were, all of them, married. But for some the emotional bond was beginning to crumble under strain. And for others it had broken a long time ago. Chris walked down the hall to her room at the end. She put the key in the lock, turned it, opened the door, shut it again and locked it. Then, still in the hall, she'd turn and walk quietly back up to Harry's. Quietly.

So it had begun again last night they shut the hotel bar down one last time. This time they all hung around together. Chris, Lisa and Ellen were off in the morning and Harry put on a happy face. They talked movies. They compared some great date movies. Harry thought "Garden State" was a pretty good bet, although his wife had hated it. Lisa was a holdout for "Dirty Dancing." Lou came up with "Ballroom Dancing" and "Scent of a Woman".

Chris loved "Beautiful Girls."

So did Harry. It was one of his favorites.

He knew the morning was going to be hard and, standing in the rain on Spanish Place it was living up to every bad promise it had made the night before.

Alone, he turned back into the lobby.