You drove me
Through wind and snow,
Robbed me of my silver
Robbed me of my gold,
I’ll be damned
If I let you
Rob me of my soul
― Hugh Laurie
It was a late Friday afternoon and getting dark. I was in downtown Toronto to confer with a publisher and he suggested meeting him for drinks at a nearby bar—I never made it that far.
It was an icy, silvery afternoon and I had foolishly elected to walk—only a few blocks so I could window shop, I told myself.
I was on a trendy street lined with chic shops, exclusive boutiques and a splattering of small, private art galleries. Out of one gallery came a woman dressed elegantly in an ebony hat and red wool maxi coat.
I paused to let her pass, but her boot slipped on the glassy sidewalk and she fell awkwardly, evidently twisting her ankle.
I immediately rushed to help.
“Are you able to stand?” I asked.
She was in obvious pain, and momentarily unable to speak. I felt totally helpless.
“Maybe, I should go back inside the gallery and ask them to call for paramedics,” I suggested.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered, “maybe you can help me up.”
She tilted her face up to me and when her eyes met mine they took my breath away. She was flawlessly beautiful—lovely hair, transparent skin and huge dark brown eyes that completely captivated me.
But I was worried she’d injure herself more trying to stand. “You sure you want to risk this?”
She nodded, so I got behind her and lifted her straight up, my arms under her armpits. She staggered a little but was able to rest her weight on her good ankle.
“Do you want me to help you inside?” I asked, nodding toward the gallery she had just left.
A look of panic crossed her face, “Oh no, please just help me down the street a ways—there’s a small pub on the corner.”
Against my better instincts, I complied.
We took several minutes navigating the icy sidewalk, hobbling and pausing, until we finally made it into the pub and I helped her to a window seat.
She was wincing from pain, but wouldn’t let me call for an ambulance. In the absence of another plan, I sat down opposite her and ordered us both wine, figuring it wouldn’t hurt and might help.
“Thank you so much for rescuing me,” she said, “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
I downplayed my part, “It was nothing really, but you’re welcome—by the way, my name’s Paul.”
“I’m Emme,” she smiled, “and despite your modesty, you were very gallant.”
I felt a flush creep up my neck, but the waitress arrived just then with our wine and provided a fortunate distraction.
We sat quietly sipping Shiraz. I was fascinated by how the subdued overhead lighting burnished her hair.
“Do you work in that art gallery?” I asked.
“Oh no, I was just browsing—I love paintings—especially modernist, mostly Chagall, I suppose.”
“Really? He’s my favorite artist—I love his innocence and simplicity.”
Her pupils went large and she stared at me until I began to feel uncomfortable.
“I wish I could enter one of his canvases and live there,” she said dreamily. “It’s a romantic notion, I know, but that’s the kind of life I want.”
I nodded, lost in her dream as well.
“What about you, Paul—what kind of a life do you want?”
My mind went blank as the snow now starting to fall outside.
“I don’t know, actually—it’s embarrassing, I mean, my being a writer and all.”
“What do you write?”
“Novels—romances, mostly—I suppose that’s probably why I like Chagall.”
Her eyes softened. “I knew you were a sensitive man.”
I signalled the waitress to drop more wine. “Are you hungry?” I asked.
“A little, I suppose—they make the best Jalapeño Poppers here—they’re really addictive,” she giggled.
For a brief moment she was vulnerable—I hadn’t realized how guarded she had been up until then but dismissed the thought believing it was simply a natural reticence.
Maybe she was warming to me.
“What do you do for a living, Emme?”
A pained look crossed her features, and I wished I hadn’t asked.
At first, I thought she was going to disregard the question, but something inside her changed and then, I saw her features harden again.
“I’m an escort, Paul—I started off as a runway model, but when I hit my mid-twenties, that career was over, so I worked for a while in public relations, but finally ended up here.”
She said the last word with disdain as if it reminded her of something disgusting.
I put together the pieces and then knew why she didn’t want to return to the gallery—she wasn’t there as a patron, but as a client.
My mind tried to wrap itself around the notion that the lovely goddess sitting opposite me was in reality, a high-end call girl.
“Look, you don’t have to stay now,” she said harshly, and her tone startled me. “You’ve done your shining knight routine, and I’ll be fine—I’ll call a cab.”
“I’m not judging you, Emme. I’m here because I enjoy your company—that’s it, plain and simple.”
“That would be funny if that were true, but in my business that kind of line is just an opener. Sorry if it sounds harsh, but it’s the way it is.”
A sudden anger flared inside me—I resented being compared to her johns—and I actually did like her—at least, I did up until that moment.
“Maybe you think you know men, and maybe you do—but I’m not like most men. I saw something in you, Emme—something tender and vulnerable. I don’t care what you do.”
She softened, and her huge eyes grew moist. “You’re sweet, Paul, and I know you really believe that, but you don’t know what it’s like to be me. If you’ve got some crazy idea we can be friends, or even something more, forget about it. You’re just going to buy yourself a whole lot of heartache.”
“But you said you were a romantic.”
She tossed her head in scorn. “Like I said, it was a romantic notion—to crawl inside a picture, like some kind of Norman Rockwell scene that I’ve never known and probably couldn’t even begin to feel.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked.
Her face went hard as stone. “I know one thing—my mother was right—all men lie, and it’s been proven over and over again in my life.”
The waitress came and dropped the food. The air went dead between us. It was strange—the warm inviting aroma of food and the counterpoint of an icy chill falling over us.
“I think you better go, Paul.” She said the words softly, sadly, but with finality. There’d be no debating her view.
I dropped several twenties on the table, slowly buttoned up my coat and left. I wanted to say something, but the words got stuck in my throat.
Five years have passed since then, and like a ghost that won’t be laid to rest, her face comes back to haunt me.
It’s foolish for me to feel this way, to imagine she feels the same way too—after all, she was forewarned against men—this was how it was bound to end.
Still, I find myself talking to her in my head.
I never cared for you. How could I, Emme?
But when raindrops start, I keep searching for a place to go—a haven out of the night...
someplace safe from winds and storms...
where the past can be absolved and the deepest wrongs made right.