Fanny Bower Puts Herself Out There Read online

  "Sorry for the delay," he said, putting his phone away. "This has been an insane night and I really did park a car down here, despite how it might look..." He drifted off just as they both spotted the tow truck pulling away with a black sports car.

  "By any chance...?"

  "Yes, my car...parked illegally. What the? Well, let's find you a cab."

  Within moments she was sliding into the back seat of a cab while Jack conferred with the driver outside. She caught him slipping the driver some bills but was far too irked and exhausted to protest. Honestly, does he think I'm five years old? she fumed, silently. It had become obvious to her that he belonged to that uncompromising, moneyed breed of men conditioned by a lifetime of never actually having to compromise, a helpful trait in the running of a multi-national company or management of pesky demonstrators, but she pitied his future long-suffering wife. Forever running in a thousand directions - he was probably a workaholic with intimacy issues. Men like that compartmentalized their lives; they simply rejected the whole work/life balance ethic. Her mother had gently warned her off these types but Fanny was wise to what was subtly implied: if you must marry, and you certainly don't need to in order to achieve lasting happiness, seek out someone like your father.

  Fanny sat bolt upright as her door swung open and Jack leaned in to pass her a business card.

  "My cell number is on this if you need to contact me," he said, sternly.

  She caught her breath and froze in place as she felt his hand move over her thighs, glancing down tensely to see he'd snapped her seatbelt in place. She jerked her head to the side again as the door slammed shut.

  The taxi pulled away and she gave him an obligatory wave from the window, but he had already turned away to flag down his own cab. As her taxi moved uptown toward her apartment building she breathed long and deep and finally began to feel her body decompress. Secure in the knowledge that the evening had indeed drawn its last breath, she began to reflect more positively on the earlier events. She was not entirely disappointed with her performance, on balance. Her brush with the law had been an unfortunate sideshow; still it had a future as a scandalous family secret she could tell her future kids which they'd embellish and reveal to their friends. Yes, she had made strides tonight, a worthwhile effort, and now she was about to reward herself with the one indulgence she'd been denied all day long.

  2

  Solitude. After a fitful sleep, Fanny opened her eyes to the blissful realization that she was indeed, safely cocooned in her own apartment, nestled in bed. Alone. At Last. Yes, those were her abandoned clothes, forming wrinkles on the closet floor, it was her makeup streaked on the pillow case, and her wine glass, half full, perched precariously on the edge of her bedside stand. But she was quick to justify a night off from distracting, goody-goody routines and besides, there was no one there to judge. Rejoicing in her privacy and yawning happily, she stretched her arms out luxuriously and felt a sharp stab of pain in her shoulder, an unwelcome reminder of the previous night's escapades. "Oh Cod. Frwuggh," she muttered hoarsely through parched lips, and retreated further under the covers only to pop back out with renewed vigour after it struck her that her alarm had not gone off. This could only mean one thing. IT was here and time was of the essence. She couldn't afford to fritter away another moment.

  Saturday morning. She'd always cherished this day but lately her sanity seemed to hinge on it. On the remaining days of the week she found herself soldiering on, going through the motions with a familiar pattern emerging; her new career had turned out to be work after all. The potential for any genuine enjoyment of Sunday was spoiled by her apprehension and dread of the days that followed. To give them their due, Mondays weren't torture exactly, just a dull, plodding tedium and then the relief of hump day only begot the yearning for Friday, which had lost its cachet of late. But Saturday mornings stood apart, untouchable. They held such dizzying promise of tasks completed, errands run, lists made and items ticked off, or not, for she was just as easily seduced by the slothful pleasure found in lolling around her apartment, wiling away the hours lost in a book or immersed in a selection of her favourite daydreams.

  It was precisely because of these daydreams that Fanny enjoyed such a robust interior life, as the lion's share of her living took place in her head. Her vast reserves of spirit, verve, and spark lay dormant. She knew she needed to stop the daydreaming and start doing in order to release her inner dynamo, but not just yet. Lader. Maybe she'd just rest her eyes for a moment. Mmmm...

  "Brrrrriiing."

  Fanny buried her head in her pillow while she felt about the night stand and then pressed the snooze button of her alarm. Perplexingly, the ringing persisted unabated, off and on, and as the fog lifted she was able to distinguish a familiar ring tone. She rolled out of bed and began to rifle through her purse.

  "Hi."

  "Happy Saturday."

  "Oh good, it still is then. Phew... How are you Dad?"

  "I'm great, well you know, muddling through but I should be asking you that question. I heard some protesters showed up at work."

  "Now, how did you find out?"

  "News travels fast, even to outposts like Kingston. You know we live and die for word from Toronto. The radio, I think. C.B.C."

  "Don't worry, all's well. Bit of a story actually but...never mind, I'll fill you in next weekend."

  "Yes, about that, there's a thing I'd like you to attend when you're here. Nothing too fancy. A fundraiser. Once again. For the university this time. A chum of mine has organized it. Very thoughtful. Thought you'd like to come along to keep me company.

  Fanny noted the eerily upbeat, manufactured cheeriness in his tone but responded casually as if she hadn't. "Not to worry Dad, I don't mind. Love to come."

  "That was...remarkably easy. Are you sure you're alright?"

  "Really, I'm fine. Trying out a new persona. Party girl. I'm trying to be vigilant with a harsh new regimen of crushing my instinct to automatically retreat whenever society beckons. For now on, I'll be forcing myself into uncharted waters while banishing any noisy dissenting thoughts. Oh, and a new mantra: accept all invitations. Period."

  "Ah, very brave and... ambitious. That's the stuff. I think. Anyway, I'll pick you up at the train station. Great news Fanny, looking forward to it, as always."

  Her father was able to put her in a good mood even when he was being a weasel and pulling the old bait and switch. She was certain he must have known about this function long before she'd mentioned her visit but had cleverly withheld it, waiting until closer to the date to spring it on her, to ensure she couldn't back out. Sly.

  They were of one mind when it came to this sort of event. The anticipation was sheer agony, it was purgatory throughout, and when it was over they were so utterly depleted that it took several hours of decompression before they had recovered enough to laugh the whole thing off. Fundraisers fell into the more brutal category of social obligations, and they both had a knack for getting roped into them. She was touched to think that he must have been suffering in silence for weeks.

  It was at times like this that a dull ache threatened to settle in the pit of her stomach. Longing. Her mother had died suddenly in a car crash ten years ago just as Fanny was graduating from Queen's University in Kingston, and no one in the family was even remotely equipped to deal with the desolation; they were equally shattered. Her older brother had high-tailed it to India to lick his wounds from a safe distance. He'd visited twice and only after he'd scraped together enough money from his meagre earnings teaching English and working in orphanages. The last time Fanny had seen him he was riddled with parasites, had shaved his head and was attempting to reach enlightenment. She saw this as constructive though and encouraged him, hoping he'd wise up fast and realize how much suffering he was causing their Dad. Her father had put on an unconvincing display of bravery as he struggled to disguise a broken heart. He threw himself into his work as the head of the History Department at Queen's University and carried o
n despite his shock and deep sadness.

  And then there was Fanny. The bereavement class drop-out. After finally admitting that she'd wallowed in self-pity long enough, she recognized her best hope of getting over it was to move through it, so she got on with things. She fell in love with a charming, light-filled one bedroom apartment in Toronto and embarked on her career, landing the first of several jobs, all of which narrowly sustained her in her new digs. She divided her time, trying to spend as many weekends as possible with her father in Kingston where they steadfastly avoided gloominess and laughed at the ridiculous at every opportunity, in tribute to her mother.

  Fanny remembered her mother as warm, funny and vivacious and adored her for it. She could always be depended upon to handle the heavy lifting at social gatherings. Fanny had been content to quietly observe her and bask in the glow. People were drawn to her mother's magnetism but remained loyal because she was so unreservedly accepting, especially with her own family whom she never criticized. The only real guidance she had offered her children was to seek out their life's purpose, lofty advice which Fanny found a bit too vague to put into practice. It was maddeningly open to interpretation, she hadn't left clear instructions, and there was no longer any way to get feedback anyway. She'd made it sound like a breeze and assured Fanny that once she found it, the other stuff like boyfriends and careers would fall into place. Fanny was pretty sure her mission in life was unlikely to materialize on her computer screen as the result of an exhaustive Google search but she knew that if she put herself out there, as her mother had, opportunities were bound to present themselves.

  Her cell rang again and one side of her face turned up into a curious half smile as she scanned her call display. George Raskell. He hadn't been in contact for some time and her number had changed, so he'd made an effort to track her down. A former university room-mate of her brother, he'd been the big man on campus at Queen’s in his final year of business school when she was a freshman and, by her own calculations, strictly out of her league. She recalled watching as he circulated about the room at campus parties, witnessing the delight on everyone's face when he approached, and the ripples of excitement as they hung on to his every word. She considered herself long past all that, and yet couldn't deny feeling somehow touched by greatness whenever he called to chat.

  Ever the charmer, he always began by making careful inquiries about her and her family, gently pressing her for details, urging her on and listening attentively, before launching into his own passionate and rambling discourse. Her role as sounding board and indulgent listener wasn't especially taxing. He was usually vetting a business "opportunity", some hare-brained scheme or the other and was seeking blind faith dressed up like an actual opinion; she was only too happy to oblige him. He talked a good game and sooner or later one of his ideas was bound to take. It was the least she could do for the man who'd featured prominently in her daydreams over the years, gallantly plucking her from a life of drudgery and obscurity. She cleared her throat before placing the phone to her ear.

  "Hello"

  "Fanny, it's George. How are you?"

  "Hi George. I'm alright, thanks. It's good to hear from you. It's been a while..."

  "Too long and all your fault, of course. You're one of the last social networking holdouts which I admire, incidentally, but it's meant I've had to stoop to snooping around to find you. Don't ask. Anyway, it's great to hear your voice, Fanny. I know you're at Barrington Global now and clearly you survived last night's follies - that's got to be a P.R. nightmare."

  "Ah that...well, as a matter of fact, I ended up in the thick of it but obviously lived to tell the tale-."

  "Precisely why I called Fanny. Thing is I need to talk to you and not just about last night. Love to see you, catch up, have a real chat. I've missed our discussions, as one-way as they were. I promise to give you a turn. Would it be alright if I called you next week at work to set up a date?"

  "Of course. I'm pretty wide open, er... what I mean is, I'm usually free at lunch."

  "Yes well, I was hoping to meet after work for dinner so we can relax a bit. You'll be home before midnight, promise."

  "Oh, dinner then... even better. And I quite agree, we can't allow the clock to strike twelve or hideous stuff will ensue. I'm apt to transform back into-."

  "You're probably even more beautiful than I remember. Even back in our student days when I was less interested in say, demonstrating, and more into scrounging money for beer, I was aware of you. Those green seashell eyes aren't easily forgotten, but you were my room-mate's gorgeous little sister back then. Not recommended. Anyway, I'll be in touch soon. Take care Fanny."

  "Oh, ok then. Bye George."

  Huh? Fanny flopped down on her bed in a state of bemusement then methodically rewound the conversation back to the intriguing bits. "Date", "dinner", and "gorgeous" were words demanding further examination, to be mulled over. She raised the curtain open on her inner theatre revealing a brief naughty scene then quickly drew it closed. A few moments later she found herself squinting into the bathroom mirror to see for herself whether her eyes were an unforgettable shade of green but the absurdity of the task shocked her back into reality and she muzzled her imaginings to consider a sensible explanation.

  He probably just needed to wax nostalgic about his salad days at Queen's. They would reminisce about simpler times and stay out too late. He hadn't bothered to ask about her brother though and it was curious that he had held out until now to reveal that she'd once been off-limits, that he'd merely been exercising self-restraint. Perhaps the statute of limitations on these things had just expired. Better late than never she supposed.

  She orbited around the bathroom tidying up, awash in pleasant thoughts and stopped momentarily to examine her reflection, uncritically, in the full length mirror. She had inherited her mother's high cheekbones, almond shaped eyes and thick, dark hair. Her eyebrows were good, a blessing which spared her the trouble of taking a stand against plucking. She had slender arms and a narrow waist countered by generous hips and thighs. The one time she'd tried to lose weight her face caved in so she gorged her way back to normal, resolving to pick her battles. Barring the unforeseen and much dreaded renegade cold sore, on most days she felt attractive without needing steady reassurance, though she wasn't one to spurn a compliment either. She was grateful she wasn't hung up on body image, with complicated beauty rituals being the energy-sapping time wasters that they were, not to mention a bore.

  Nevertheless, if she was going to do this thing, accept all invitations, accept his invitation, she would have to give herself a proper launch with the correct gear. What better way to motivate herself than with some new things, though she assured herself she would diligently shop her own closet first before she hit the stores. Much like good china, she had a collection of finer clothes accumulating dust on hangers, reserved for the perfect occasion. She strolled over to inspect. Apparently she had purchased a different version of the same black dress and leather pumps over and over again and yet she doubted she could scrounge a single pair of hose without a run. She refused to replace her wardrobe every season as the fashion magazines and blogs so sternly advised and she had a preference for second-hand and vintage, her radar ever alert to sales. Not only did poking about consignment stores, with the notion of making something old new again serve to alleviate her consumer guilt, it suited her tight budget and lax laundry habits. She could afford to gamble with her hand washables, dry clean only, delicates, and colours and carelessly tossed them willy-nilly into the wash, seldom encountering disastrous results. She owned one good strand of pearls that her mother had worn and a large collection of costume jewellery, mostly spider brooches, purchased from flea markets during her spider brooch phase.

  She recognized the serious gaps in her wardrobe and knew if she was to set about revamping her image she had her work cut out for her. Ultimately, it was only when she donned her weekend garb that she felt truly at ease. Her go-to Saturday outfit was a pair of be
lted loose fitting jeans or capris with a short sleeved dress shirt, liberated from her father's closet, an ordinary ensemble that she sought to make extraordinary with a silk scarf, but the ideal one eluded her. For some women it was all about handbags and for others, shoes, but she was on a quest for the scarf that brought forth her very best. She was reluctant to concede that it might just be the thrill of the chase that fed her obsession but rather sensed that when the right one came along she would know.

  Her cell was ringing. This time it was Evie.

  "Hi."

  "Good," Evie said, letting out a huge breath. "You're awake. Apologies, I'm well aware it's sacred Saturday, but if you'd answer your texts... Won't keep you, just making sure Jack made good on his promise and delivered you home without further ado."

  "Sorry, didn't see your texts, it's my phone. Temperamental dinosaur, oh just a sec, it just coughed them out now, and thank-you, Evie, for checking up and for saving my skin last night."

  "I think Jack is owed the larger share of credit for his part in the mission. He had to do some fast talking at the police station to get you released early. Commanding. Whew. I found myself...anyway, I'm happy he got you home safely."

  "Oh - last minute change to the program - I took a cab and his car was impounded, so now I have that to repent for. As for the commanding bit - well, no kidding. I found him pushy. Did you find him pushy?"

  "What? Pushy? Directive, possibly, but it comes with the territory. And considering all things, definitely not a good night for Barrington Global. Touchy stuff. I'm just amazed he didn't crack with the pressure. Now that's grace under fire."