I have always hated waiting.
It can be tiresome; boring; nerve-wrecking; infuriating; or just about anything in the world but pleasant. So as I sat in my favourite armchair in my apartment’s living room, I would periodically check the time first on my wristwatch, before glancing up at the metallic round clock on the wall just above my gas fireplace for further verification; frowning if the time did not match be even a few mere seconds. Sometimes I stood up instead; just to kill a couple of minutes and rearrange the order of my open drinks cabinet; spinning around the tumbler glasses to create a even alinement, making them neat and presentable. I didn’t dip into any of the alcohol myself, despite my pressing need for some Dutch Courage right about now; just a half-glass of whiskey to wet my lips and quash that persistent bubbling shadow that we call ‘doubt’ trying to rise above the surface and spoil my initial excitement for this evening. I checked the time again. It was 7.30 PM on both accounts. Just another half hour to go before my guest arrived.
I looked around first at my apartment. Everything was presentable, clean and had a touch of my antiqued tastes here and there to give it some of my own character, but not enough to downplay it’s modernness. I had surprised even myself when I arranged for this evening to be held at my London sanctuary, instead of the impartiality and neutral ground of a hotel, like I usually do with all of my intimate encounters. But this was different. Strategic. I wanted to test this, and I wanted it to be held in the very heart of my domain, so that he would know my sincerity. But also so that if his offer was only meant in jest, at least I would not be putting myself out for the night, waiting on him to arrive, sat alone in a white room with a cheap colourful carpet and sealed windows, only to walk out at dawn feeling cheated and the slow burn of disappointment and humiliation of having believed he would come at all. If I was to waste my time this evening, then I would rather not waste my money as well.
I then turned to the mirror, looking upon myself critically. I had no intention of dressing up for the occasion. I was no public schoolboy preparing for his first formal dinner date, nervously slicking back his hair and retying his necktie several times over. But nor was a slovenly yob, satisfied with an oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans with no thought to his appearance. Instead I compromised. I wore some simple dark trousers and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to rest upon my elbows. I did not bother with a tie, choosing instead to open up the first two top buttons. It was informal but still maintained a level of class and dignity. Again, I had no wish to heighten my hopes further in the form of my choice of garments, just in case they were quickly dashed, like an Armada against the costal cliffs.
I smiled grimly at my own insistent doubts. Why did they persist? I could answer my own question easily enough in the form of the tiny sealed bags of white powder I kept hidden in my underwear drawer, just specially for the days in which a drink would not suffice. But then, I can’t really blame the cocaine for my paranoias. Not really. Not for something I trace back to before I even was an Empire; back to a time where every hand of friendship came accompanied with a dagger. Et tu Brute? That still hadn’t changed for me, especially today. Still, when I think of the end of our meeting a few days ago; my face clouded with a pale shade of grey as we discussed anything that was a cause of concern from the Referendum to Ukraine to that miserable American brat across the waters and his unwanted interventions; I can’t help but think I heard sincerity in his tone after our meeting was over and we parted. No sooner had I headed towards the open hallway did I hear him again, addressing me with his typical formality of ‘Mister England’ and inviting me to share in a drink with him if I was not too eager to see myself back home just yet. I consented on account of my parched throat and moody detriment, hoping to cheer myself up, or at the very least get roaringly drunk for a short time… I didn’t get drunk, but I must have lost my bloody mind at some point when conversation turned more personal, and with a wry smirk, I wrote down my highly coveted apartment address in the blank page of one of his little notation books before taking another generous gulp of cider and saying: ‘You of course already have my contact details,’ as I tapped his phone almost conspiratorially.
I never really expected him to call. But he did. And we agreed to meet in my London at 8 O’Clock sharp. We also agreed on ironing out any and all details of this arrangement, if of course we were both determined to continue it onwards after tonight. This evening was a test run; an experience, and I wanted to follow it through, but the question was… Would he as well? I looked at my watch again. 7.35 PM. I sighed and picked up a newspaper, flicking to the page of an unfinished crossword and picking up a pen. I had just started to relax and concentrate my efforts on the weekly little brainteaser when I heard the doorbell buzzing into life. Battle stations people. All hands on deck. I folded my paper back up and walked out of the living room into narrow entryway and unlocked the door with the key I left in the lock. I pulled it opened and looked up at the man at my door, arms behind his back, returning my scrutinising gaze with one of his own. I tried not to appear shocked that he had actually shown up, and evaporated my smoky paranoias and riddling doubts with his very presence outside my apartment. He had meant it. He had meant every word he had said to me on the phone. This was no tease, no elaborate attempt to ridicule me and probably laugh about it with the likes of France later in the week. For the first time since the proposition, I let myself feel hope that I would not be disappointed.
I nodded in acknowledgement towards him, managing to soften my perpetual scowl as I stepped aside for him to enter. “Evening. Good to see you didn’t have a change of heart… Well come in then, I’ve set up for drinks in the living room before we start. You can hang your coat or whatever else here,” I said, indicating the selection of pegs I had drilled into the wall beside the door some time ago, above a small floor mat where my shoes were usually placed and an wooden umbrella stand. I closed the door behind him, and locked us both in.
