Minutes must’ve passed as I sat there on the floor, leaning against the bed with my heart pounding fast. But really it was only a second and then I heard his voice.
“James Caldwell.”
I tried to gasp but my lungs were stripped of air. Meanwhile my stomach dropped to the floor, falling through the basement, even further through the dirt, and finally landing with a thud on the earth’s core.
It was his accent. A deep-voiced, perfectly enunciated English accent.
Like Jude Law live on the air.
Say something, say ANYTHING!
“Hi…it’s me. Romi. From Canada.”
Yeah, real smooth.
“Hello Roms. How are you?” His voice was making me melt. The conversation hadn’t even begun and I was already in dire need of a towel.
But wait a second…Roms? Like “moms”? It’s “Romes” dumbass! It was a first offense so I let it slide.
“Fine thanks,” I said. “You took a while to answer. I thought you might’ve fallen asleep.”
No he didn’t take a long time, it was only two rings; WHAT AM I DOING?!
“Yes well, it is past midnight here. But then again it’s Barcelona. I rarely get to bed very early.”
Oh right, your sexy and exciting life. Feeling annoyed seemed to instantly calm my nerves.
“Well your voice is a surprise,” I said. “I assumed you’d be American.”
“No ‘fraid not. All English all the way.”
I was drooling by now. “English!” I mumbled it strangely, which may have made it sound like a question.
“Yes English,” he repeated. “As in the Queen and Buckingham Palace, red buses and black taxis, fish and chips and David Beckham... although I am not quite sure why I just put those two together.”
“But you live in Spain?” I had to buy some time to compose myself. Just keep him talking.
“Well I grew up in Wiltshire, which is South West England…by the way your voice is somewhat amusing.”
I winced and shook my head. “Oh god, do I sound like a pre-pubescent boy? I have this insane fear of sounding like a boy in recordings and over the phone…not that I’m in the habit of being in recordings but…you know what I mean.”
What the hell was I talking about?
James laughed gently. “No you don’t sound like a pre-pubescent boy for which I am enormously grateful. The Internet is a strange place, you never really know who is on the other end but you…you just sound bubbly and innocent, which is quite a relief I can tell you.”
Boy does somebody have it wrong!
“You’ve read my blog James; I’m neither bubbly nor innocent. Just a little crazy perhaps.”
Sure, tell him you’re crazy in the first conversation. Guys love that.
“That’s true,” he said, his voice momentarily crackling as the telephone connection fizzled.
“So can you tell me a bit more about your life as a screenwriter?” I asked. “It’s hard to get information out of e-mails. I practically have to beat the details out of you!” I started laughing. Then quickly began to wonder if he actually thought I was abusive.
“Wasn’t the point of this conversation to talk about your writing instead?”
“I know, but we need to warm things up. You go first.”
Yeah, you keep talking with that luscious accent.
“Alright…” he began, “well for one thing it’s very easy to become distracted out here. Blue skies, blue seas, great food, great wine...” he trailed off.
And hot Spanish chicks damn you!
“I’m guessing it’s great for inspiration?”
“Oh indeed that it is,” he said warmly. “Imagine starting your day with the sun on the terrace, a few sheets of blank paper and a strong black coffee. Simply magnificent, can you picture that?”
Umm no.
At that moment I looked out my bedroom window, and the beige brick wall of our neighbour’s house looked back.
“Wow, that sounds so beautiful,” I said.
Is that all you can think of to say?
“A light breeze in the air,” he continued, “the smell of the ocean sweeping over you, a few soft pastries with freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast, and the morning sun heating up your skin all the while. Are you with me?”
Yeah I’m with you, and the thought of soft pastries is making me drool. Damn diet!
“Oh yes, I’m right there. I mean come on, pastries!”
Great, now he knew I was a sugar-happy pig. Was there a way to hit rewind and start this conversation from the top?
“We’ll get back to the pastries later,” he said. “But tell me - are you a smoker?”
What? Don’t burst my Mediterranean bubble with some random question! I want pastries and sun and Barcelona!Sigh...
“No. I don’t smoke and never have.”
What a strange thing to ask. Unless he was screening my mouth for a possible make-out.
I had so many questions to ask him, so I grabbed one at random from my list. “Hey James…how old are you? I hope it’s not rude to ask, but I’m wondering if you’re secretly a miracle of science, who’s like a hundred years old but only looks thirty.”
“I look thirty? Well I’m flattered. But no, I’m thirty-seven, turning thirty-eight in a few short months. Does that answer your question Roms? Is age important to you?”
“Romes,” I said between gritted teeth.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Romes, not Roms.”
“But your name is Romi,” he said, with a typical English air that instantly made me picture Hugh Grant.
“It’s pronounced ‘Romey,’ like ‘homey’ or umm…’Pony.’ Not like ‘mommy’!”
“Mommy? Excuse me?” He chuckled. “Err I think I catch your drift on the name now…anyway where were we?”
“You were asking if age was important to me.”
“Ah yes, well is it?”
I sighed.
“No not at all,” I said, now biting my lip hard. Like when you’re hot and you have that accent, what else do I need to know? “Your age is hardly relevant, I mean look at George Clooney, almost fifty and still a heartthrob, how do men do it? It’s not fair godammit!”
“Just chalk it up to a good diet, lots of sea air and healthy living,” he said, breathing in deeply before adding “the Mediterranean way.”
Isn’t the “Mediterranean way” copious amounts of sex and olive oil? I opened my mouth to speak but luckily found the brakes.
“That’s good!” I exclaimed. My answers were dissolving into two-syllable affairs. Was I under a spell? Why couldn’t I sound cool?
“So listen,” he said. “What do you do for a real job - anything exciting? Glamorous perhaps? All red carpets and champagne parties in the snow?”
I was suddenly smiling…if only he knew. Vodka was extremely familiar, but champagne in my world rarely went beyond the five-dollar variety, bottled in an obscure country I had never heard of. So how would I explain my utterly mind-numbing corporate job? It would lead us nowhere but a dead-end street. So of course I grabbed his mention of the weather and started running…
***
“Hey James, can I ask you something?” We’d been talking for a while now, and at some point I had sprawled out on the carpet and was flat on my back.
“You can ask any question you want. I might not have the answer, but you can certainly ask the question.” I could feel him smiling as he spoke.
Always the cute comeback with this guy. Dude is driving me nuts!
I moved my left arm from behind my head, resting it now on my stomach. “Well I was just wondering, don’t you think it’s odd how we’re talking on the phone like this? I mean we’re in different countries, different time zones, different everything I guess... “
James interrupted and finished the thought. “But despite all the differences…we have this common bond of writing.”
Did he just say “bond”? As in me and him, fused together ‘til the end of time? My cheeks were burning hot as I blushed.
“Roms you just reminded me...” he paused but I cut him off swiftly.
“Romes! It’s Romes.”
“Right, gotcha.. anyway look we were to talk about your writing tonight. And suddenly it’s one a.m.”
“Oh right, that pesky time-zone thing.” I frowned.
“Of course we’ll speak again,” he said. “But before I go, maybe a quick mention about your blog.”
All my brain heard was “of course we’ll speak again.” Hallelujah!
“Go ahead I’m listening.” Sure I’m listening, just give me a sec to wipe away the drool as I envision our second call.
“Well part of what makes blogs attractive to read on a regular basis,” he began, “is a form of consistency or a common thread. For you I would focus on: complementing your background colour with your header, keeping your word-count in the same range for every post, and writing on a schedule so readers know when to check in. Maybe twice a week would work for you.”
I had a feeling that my eyes were spinning around in that crazy, infatuated way. I had never in my life heard a man talk about my writing. If there was a form of Viagra designed for Romi, this would be it.
“So your thoughts on these suggestions?” he asked.
Oh shit, I should probably say a word or two.
“They’re great, I’ll get started right away!” Could I have sounded any more like a cheerleader? Repulsive.
“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “We’ll discuss things in greater detail during our next conversation. But for now I should get to bed if that’s alright with you.”
Of course that’s not alright with me! We should talk all night until the sun rises, then fall gently asleep with the phone cradled on our shoulders and a trail of drool on my chin!
“I keep forgetting it’s so late!” I exclaimed. “Of course you need your sleep.”
“Indeed, but let me say that I’ll be the one to call you next time. These calls must be expensive for you.”
You can’t call me, I’ve got privacy issues man!
“Oh it’s fine,” I said hurriedly. “It’s like two cents a minute, and you really don’t want my sister answering the phone. That’s the last thing you need…interrogation by the Bollywood Mafia.”
I tried to laugh it off.
“Right-o, fair enough,” he said. “I won’t argue with that.”
Hell no you won’t.
“Anyway it was nice talking to you James.”
“It was nice talking to you too Roms.”
“You’re not coping too well with my name, are you?”
James laughed.
“Bye Romi.”
AND??? Don’t leave me hanging without any romance!
The line started beeping.
Did he just hang up? Was that goodbye? Where is the romance?
I grabbed the phone and started dialing again, convinced that we had lost our connection. Whilst dialing I rolled over and tried to stand up, but my leg was asleep so instead I staggered across the carpet like a drunken idiot, the phone flying right from my hand. I groaned out loud. Not the ending I had envisioned.
I would need at least three hours to analyze the call. What I knew off the bat was that despite being total strangers he was so familiar. But in another way so mysterious. He also seemed to know what I was thinking. Meanwhile I had zero intuition on his thoughts. Yet every second was…pure exhilaration.
It was a strange and surprising mix.
What I knew for sure was I wanted more and I wanted it often.
That sounds slutty.
What I didn’t know for sure was how this fit into the “year of the chick.” In fact, it didn’t really fit at all, since back on that night when I’d been checking on the rice and forming my twelve-month plan, I’d promised myself to exclude any dangerous foreigners. Which meant I now was on the edge of breaking the biggest rule.
Well too damn bad ‘cause I want more...