What's Love Got To Do With It?: A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy! Page 2

  “Wow,” I say in astonishment while I try and process all that information.

  “Always remember that wars nowadays aren’t fought by armies. Conflicts are more subtle – they’re fought through the prices of commodities, finance, exchange rate balances and so on. You can be a big country, but if the international markets want to destroy you, they will. There’s no way anyone can win against them. What matters is determining what is going to trigger it.”

  “Now do you see why I stick to writing about cocktails?” I ask ironically, “I’m a very wise woman.”

  “You are, and that’s the reason why I thought of you when I heard about Arkansas.”

  My expression immediately becomes less cheerful. The mere word ‘Arkansas’ gives me a weird uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach… and no amount of ginger tea is going to make it go away.

  “Yes, my dear Kayla. In Arkansas they are giving out permits to set up wells for the extraction of shale gas. Everybody there saw how rich the people from Fayetteville suddenly became, and now they all want a piece of the pie. The point is that the environmental problems involved are massive: desertification, destruction of landscape, methane being released into the atmosphere and, last but not least, the greenhouse effect. And on top of that, the companies who are actually managing all these operations have extremely unstable ratings. They’re in business now, but nobody knows for how long.”

  “So why didn’t I know anything about all this?”

  Roger smiles: “Exactly – and you’re not the only one. We all need to be informed about it. People need to know how the local authorities are managing the whole process and how they are studying the related problems. I want to know if they’re just being ignorant and uncaring or if it’s something worse: corruption.”

  After hearing all this, moving to Arkansas still feels like a tragedy but I have to admit that it also sounds a little more interesting. And I’m certainly not going to tell my boss that I was actually starting to get a bit bored of having to write about cocktails all the time… I’m a well known journalist in the city, but I’ve never really written anything important. It would be pretty cool to accomplish something worthwhile at least once in my career.

  “So, can we tell Arkansas that you’ll be there soon?” Roger asks me with a smile.

  “I guess you can,” I reply, using words that I would have never imagined being able to say without being high on something. “Arkansas, here I come.”

  1

  I realise that there’s something a little – or even a lot – ironic about managing to get yourself lost in the twenty-first century, but then I’m the type of woman whose bad karma is legendary. When it comes to unlikely or even downright impossible adventures, hey, I’m the queen.

  I’m always the exception to the rule, the odd number that ruins a perfect statistical sequence. If I were an economist, I’m pretty sure that notorious black swan would choose my chimney to build its nest on. There aren’t many chimneys in New York, luckily, though I’m not sure about here in Arkansas…

  After touching down in Little Rock, I’m now driving my rented economy car towards Heber Springs, and hoping and praying that I’m on highway number 65. Because there’s always the possibility that this is not, in fact, state highway 65, and in that very unfortunate case, I’m in serious trouble. Before some genius suggests it: yes, I did try and read the signs along the road. They didn’t help. In fact, I think they might have confused me even more.

  Anyone else in my position would just turn their mobile on and use the navigator to work out where the hell they are, but I can’t, because the battery of my mobile phone is flat at the moment. The damn thing turned itself off as soon as I left state highway 40, near Conway, to take the 65.

  I really don’t know why people think mobile phones are such a useful bit of tech if the batteries don’t last even half a day. As my mother would put it: this kind of thing just didn’t used to happen ten years ago. And for once I’d say that she’s absolutely right.

  My sense of direction is appalling, so although I’m fairly certain that I’m on the correct road, I wouldn’t bet my new bag on me being right. I wouldn’t even bet an old bag, to be honest. I have a special relationship with my bags. Together with my shoes, they represent one of the truest loves of my life. But if I was a bit closer to my family and if I’d come to visit my late grandmother’s sister, Aunt Jill a bit more often in the past, I would be able to work out where exactly the hell I am right now.

  But the fact is that I’m allergic to human relationships, whether in the context of romance or family. My mother and I are both proud that we have a relatively balanced rapport: there are no unresolved problems or traumas between us, we both simply live our own lives. We don’t call each other very often, which might sound strange to some people, but we are just too busy, and I certainly don’t have time to tell her every single thing that happens during my day. She, on the other hand, not only does she not find my behaviour offensive, she actively encourages me not to spend hours on the phone, as she has neither the time, nor the desire, to listen to me talking for long.

  Feeling pretty demoralised by my inability to work out where I’m going, I decide to stop somewhere along the road and see if there’s a map anywhere in the car. I’m just hoping that hire car companies still equip their cars with them.

  If my newspaper paid a little more for assignments, I could have chosen a car with more accessories. I could have rented a car with a built in navigator, for example, but instead I had the to choose the most basic model available. It’s no surprise that the monthly rent for this car is less than what a normal one would cost for a week.

  I brake hard and turn off towards a stopping place, and a huge cloud of dust submerges the whole vehicle. “What the hell…” I shout in disbelief as I climb, coughing, out of the car. Aren’t pull ins tarmacked in Arkansas? Evidently not.

  I wait for the dust to clear a little so I can see the view and then I head towards the trunk. I open it and only barely manage to avoid bursting into tears of joy: it’s full of maps! I love people who ignore technology and stubbornly continue to use things like paper road maps.

  I take out the one I need and start looking at it and turning it in every possible direction in the hope of finding my location. I peer around, but can’t see any landmarks anywhere… Of course, if the dust would stop obstructing my view for a moment I might have a better chance at finding one.

  While I’m trying to study the horizon, I hear someone braking very close to me. Startled, I turn to see a dark pickup truck pulling up behind my car. Before it appeared the dust had almost settled, but now the air’s full of it again, damn it!

  “Oh, what the hell!” I can’t help shouting. And my next instinct is to go grab the pepper spray I keep in my bag: you never know how many psychopaths there are roaming the streets these days – especially the dustier ones. And on top of that, I’m a New Yorker, and we’re suspicious of everything. The world is full of serial killers, and given my luck, I might have bumped into one just as soon as I entered this state with its dusty pull-ins.

  The door of the pickup opens and out climbs a guy dressed in clothes that have seen better days: his jeans look so old that the pair I’ve got at the back of the closet, and that I considered totally out of fashion, look almost brand new in comparison. He’s also wearing a very dusty black t-shirt, worn boots, sunglasses, and has a cowboy hat on his head.

  Is this guy actually wearing a cowboy hat in 2015? Someone should tell him this isn’t Texas. I wouldn’t wear one of those things if they put a gun to my head. My expression is half worried by the possibility that he might be dangerous and half amused at the sight of him – he’s a very different specimen from the city people I’m used to seeing. His tight t-shirt reveals very toned muscles, which makes me think that if he is a serial killer, at least he’s a buff one. Not that it makes the situation any better… Ok, I’ll admit it: it does make it a tiny bit better.

  He notices my rigid posture and takes off his hat and glasses as though to reassure me. The sight of his face makes me at least relax my grip on my bag and its contents a little. Maybe I won’t need to use my pepper spray after all.

  His dark blond hair is cut very well. It’s short and practical in a way that suits his face perfectly. But there is nothing at all practical about those eyes, though: they are light blue and somehow remind me of my friend Amalia’s. I’m guessing a man with eyes as beautiful as those can’t be a psychopath, right?

  “Do you need help?” he asks. The man has a deep voice, and I can’t detect any accent. That is a very suspicious trait around these parts. I stand there perplexed for a moment. Should I ask for directions or shouldn’t I? I can’t decide.

  He waits for me to say something, but after my prolonged silence adds, “I saw your car parked here and was wondering if you’re having some kind of trouble.” If possible, I’m even more suspicious after those words. I’m not used to strangers stopping on a road to ask me if I need help. That type of thing just doesn’t happen in my city.

  “Are you a serial killer?” I ask him seriously.

  Instead of taking offence or punching me in the face, he bursts out laughing, showing his perfectly straight teeth. “Do you really think that if I were a serial killer I’d come out and tell you I was?” he asks, visibly amused.

  “The world is full of crazy people, and some of them like to terrorise their victims,” I reply.

  He shakes his head incredulously. “Do you know what the real problem in this country is?” he says, talking a step towards me.

  I instinctively step backwards. “Is it that China owns such a large share of our public debt?” I say, hazarding a guess. It happens to me all the time when I’m stressed: I come out
with weird, but strangely intelligent, things. Luckily it doesn’t happen often… He looks at me surprise. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the kind the answer you were expecting to hear, I get that.

  “You’re not from around here,” he says with conviction.

  “Why? You mean, because I just mentioned China?” I can’t help smiling.

  “No, because you just mentioned ‘public debt’. Nobody from round here would ever do that.”

  I know that I usually write about cocktails, or theatre premieres if I’m especially lucky, but they’re not the only things I know about! I smile angelically and avoid adding anything else. It’s always better not to get too friendly with strangers.

  “Anyway, what I meant was that the real problem in this country is the number of TV shows that are all about terrorists and serial killers. People get it into their heads that they’re representative of reality and start seeing criminals everywhere,” he explains patiently. I can’t say he’s completely wrong.

  “So, what you’re saying is that you don’t belong to either category, right?” I notice that I’m feeling much more relaxed now. This guy is pretty funny, and psychopaths aren’t supposed to be able to hold a conversation and act so comfortable around other people. At least, that’s what I hope.

  “I solemnly swear that I’m neither a terrorist nor a serial killer,” he confirms, theatrically putting one hand on his heart. “So, how can I help you?”

  He really does have a very cute smile. He’s one of those men who I find it really hard to keep my breathing normal around. I need to force myself to stop staring at him the way an alcoholic would stare at a bottle of good whiskey and try and focus back on my actual problem. “I’m not actually sure exactly where I am…” I admit.

  “Have you thought of using your navigator?” he says. “They tell me that all modern phones have one.”

  Okay, he’s handsome, but that doesn’t give him the right to tease me.

  “Of course I did, but you won’t believe what happened to my phone,” I say defensively, crossing my arms across my chest. “Its battery just up and died.”

  He raises an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s because you women never put the darn things down. You’re always messaging someone about who knows what…”

  “We’re obviously writing about you men – you give us plenty of good material.”

  “I’m sure we do.”

  “Well, at least we communicate…” I say. He’s definitely touched a raw nerve.

  “Sure – and then you end up driving down a completely unknown road with a dead battery.” he concludes.

  Touché. This guy is actually pretty annoying.

  “Yes, my phone’s battery is dead, but this isn’t a completely unknown road,” I reply, instinctively defending myself. “I was born near here.” I say it before I have time to think about it. I usually don’t admit stuff like that so readily.

  “You are from Arkansas?” he says and starts laughing out loud again.

  I stare at him angrily. “And what’s so funny about that?”

  He stops laughing and looks me up and down from head to toe. “Where should I start? Your shoes, maybe? No sane woman would ever wear heels that high. Certainly nobody from Arkansas.”

  “What’s wrong with my shoes?” I ask in a loud, offended voice while I lift a foot to look at one.

  “What colour is that even?” he asks impertinently.

  “It’s quite obviously electric blue,” I reply, annoyed at having to point out the obvious.

  “That’s what I mean… Is ‘electric blue’ even a colour? And what about your bag?”

  I clutch it tightly and start reconsidering using my pepper spray…

  “What label is it? Prada? Gucci?” he asks cheerfully.

  I’m shocked at the idea that the cowboy in front of me is even aware of the existence of labels like that… It must be some weird side effect of globalisation. It really has turned the world upside down.

  “No, it’s a Céline,” I correct him haughtily.

  “An electric blue Céline,” he chuckles.

  “Of course if I’m wearing electric blue shoes, I should have a bag the same colour! I don’t like weird combinations and haphazard matchings. I’m a purist, one of the few left, when it comes to fashion. Anyway, if you must know, in this case I got the bag first, and then went looking for a pair of shoes to match. And it wasn’t easy to find the right colour!” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this. I guess I must have breathed in too much dust and it’s given me brain damage. Either that or it’s the Arkansas air: my body is already missing its dose of metropolitan pollution.

  “Chicago?” he asks without specifying what he means.

  “No,” I reply.

  “Los Angeles?” he asks, trying again.

  I open my eyes wide. “Do I look like a Californian to you?” I ask, outraged. “Do I even have a tan?”

  “How would I know? Maybe you’re one of those people who never expose their skin to the sun because they don’t want to end up looking older than they really are!”

  I guess he’s right, I could be one of those people. But I’m not – I’m just pale-skinned!

  “New York,” I reveal before he has time to carry on with his absurd theories.

  “Of course!” he laughs. “That was the most obvious choice…”

  “Ok. Now that we have analysed my shoes and my bag and that we know that you’re not crazy about the colour, can we please start talking about my problem, which is just slightly more urgent? It won’t take you long, because I only want to know one thing: where the hell are we?” I’m sick of standing here breathing dust.

  “We’re on state highway 65,” he says eventually.

  That’s exactly the answer I was hoping for, and it’s the first good news of the day.

  “Oh, God, thank you!” I exclaim with relief. “Now: how do I get to Heber Springs?” I say, rapidly presenting him with the second part of my problem.

  He stares at me as if I were completely out of my mind. “Do you really have to go to Heber Springs?” he asks in a strange voice.

  What kind of question is that?

  “Yes, I have to!” I reply immediately. I hope that my expression makes him understand that I’m not in the mood for any more dumb questions.

  “Why?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Maybe he is a psychopath after all.

  “My aunt lives there,” I reply, exasperated by this interrogation of his.

  “Who’s your aunt?” he asks. Weirdly, this detective act actually suits him quite well; it’s almost as if he actually does have the right to interrogate people.

  “What are you,” I ask incredulously, “the town sheriff?”

  “Nope,” he replies without adding anything else. He’s an alpha male, apparently. Very alpha, I’d say. Men like him are only interesting in bed – out here in the middle of nowhere? Not so much.

  I decide that I’ve had enough of all this repartee and that, in any case, I’ve got nothing to hide. “She’s not exactly my aunt – she’s my grandmother’s sister. Her name is Jill Ferguson.”

  His light blue eyes open up immediately. “Jill Ferguson is your aunt? Oh, my God, we’re doomed…” he sighs, and then bursts out laughing. So Aunt Jill is famous in town. Good to know.

  “Take the first exit on the right and just keep going straight on. You can’t miss it. You’ll find a welcome sign. Jill lives outside of town. Do you at least know how to get to her house?” he asks, giving me an intense look. Against my will, my heartbeat speeds up – my body is such a traitor sometimes. Anyway, it’s just as I suspected: he’s not boring at all. Just my usual luck.

  “Err, no.”

  “It gets better and better,” he murmurs and ruffles his hair with his hand. It’s so unfair that men almost always look sexier after they do that. It never happens to me – if I ruffle my hair, I end up looking like a demented porcupine, at best. “Here’s what we can do, then: you follow me and I’ll lead you to your aunt’s house,” he offers.