The Englishman Part 2: The Smart Home

About three years ago, I read the book Available by Matteson Perry, which explained the male mind to me when it comes to dating. There was one anecdote, nay, one phrase that stuck out to me and has stayed with me these many years that I repeat often to friends and acquaintances. I’m paraphrasing here, but it was something along the lines of “I invited her over for dinner, not because I'm a particularly good cook, but because my kitchen is near my bedroom.” Men plan ahead like that, ladies, for very specific circumstances.

With this bit of information thoroughly bookmarked in the back of my mind, it was no surprise that when George suggested we go back to his for wine, it was maybe a five to ten minute walk away from where we were.

George lives on the top floor of a house; through conversation I learned that he owns the entire house, but that the bottom floor needs renovation. As I ascend the stairs, I pass by a number of photos of men in uniform – photos from his time at Sandhurst and in the Army.

He speaks to ‘Alexa’ and the lights turn on. My eyes widen. He looks to me, smiles, and continues on to the kitchen. “Red, yes?”

“Yes, please.” I lean against the doorway, it’s not a large kitchen, but it is certainly larger than my galley kitchen in DC. There’s a small round table in the corner with a few chairs and number of pictures and décor on the walls. A polo mallet and helmet, for instance, which is something I rarely see.

I turn back to my host, he has pulled down to beautiful wine glasses, exactly what you would expect in high-end wine bar. He grabs a bottle of red from a wine rack and opens it easily to pour. As he hands me my glass, he gestures for us to move into the sitting room area.

It’s a dark space with leather furniture and dark wooden book cases; a very masculine space with an aesthetic that I can only describe as ‘Old British.’ I sip my wine and admit out loud that it is quite a nice red.

He goes to his record player and puts on a classical album. This leads to a discussion about Opera. Every time I get into a situation like this with men (which I don’t know how, but it happens much more frequently than you’d think), I bring up the one Opera I actually enjoyed seeing in high school, Eugene Onegin. Because I can pronounce it correctly, people assume I know a thing or two, and then they move on to a different topic.

George surprised me, then, and instead of switching the music, asked me what I liked most, I decided honesty was the best policy. “I love this one band, they only have a couple albums and not many people know of them. They're called Autoheart.”

“I have never heard of them,” he answered, but smiled, “Alexa, play Autoheart.”

From unseen speakers, I heard “Playing Autoheart” and the song "Moscow" came on throughout the entire floor.

My jaw dropped, “I have the entire floor set up, so you should be able to hear it perfectly from wherever you are.”

“The entire place is set up with Alexa?” I’ve seen an Amazon Echo before, but I’ve never been in a smart-home before! “That’s so cool!”

“Now, you like history so you might find this interesting,” he turned my attention to a painting behind me. It was a portrait of a soldier, probably from World War I judging from the attire. “This is my Grandfather?”

“But this is like the First World War? He looks like he’s in Downton Abbey. My Grandfather fought in Vietnam.”

He smiled wryly, “My father fought in the Second World War, you’ll remember I told you he was fifty when I was born?” And I also remember now that George is 39.

“Right.” My eyes widened as I looked back at the painting. “Wow.” And there it was, the exact same name as George, engraved at the bottom of the frame.

“I’m named after him.”

“That’s really impressive.” I noticed the air behind me compress as George inched ever closer. He ran his finger down my arm, and then moved my hair to kiss my neck.

I turned my head toward him first, and as he caught my mouth in a kiss, we both adjusted our bodies to better face one another, but we also both had glasses on wine in our hands. George is a good kisser, firm and commanding; I would say appropriate use of tongue. I pulled back to take a drink of wine and the conversation continued.

As a very expressive person, after the refill of the wine glass, I gesticulated a little too wildly and spilled red wine down the front of my dress. George acted immediately, “Let me get you a towel, I think if we act fast, we can get that out!” He went to a linen closet, grabbed me a towel as I slipped out of my dress. George politely averted his eyes as I wrapped the towel around myself.

George took my dress to the sink, rinsing the red stain with cold water as he grabbed sea salt and soda water from his pantry. He was explaining to me how salt helped to remove the red color and the soda water would also help lift the stain. I silently admitted to myself that I may be drunk, and watched helplessly.

He did get the color out, though, from what I could see. My dress however was soaked through now. “We’ll hang it up, hopefully it will dry by morning.” Presumptuous, but who am I kidding? This date is going very well. 
After placing the dress on a hanger in the kitchen, he backed me into a wall as “The Sailor Song” by Autoheart filled the house.

Wine glasses forgotten on the counter, he kissed me with one hand behind my head and another on my towel-covered hip. I had both my hands around his neck, one at the back of his head, threading through his curly hair. Not wasting time, he lead me to his bedroom.

Hungover In the City of Dust by Autoheart started to play:

“Feeling moody dark and heavy/ There’s no feeling in my left arm/ Resonance is far away/ Try to complicate my thinking/ Am I falling, am I sinking/ Powder in my fingernails...."

As Jody Gadsen sings “we’re hungover” over and over, I’m losing the towel and he’s losing his clothing. From there, the night closes in and we are completely unaware of the world beyond one another.

-

I wake up in the morning, to a delightful tangle of limbs and bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. My movements alert my new bedfellow and before long, we’re reliving the night before. After an almost three month dry spell, I am thoroughly enjoying the attention.

He asks me after if I would like to use his shower, and as I answer in the affirmative, he grabs another clean towel for me from the linen closet. (How many spare towels does this man have?)

The bathroom is completely modern, the shower head is directly above with a ‘rain’ style spray. I’m used to my intense high pressure spray at home and this is a new and pleasant experience. I look about while I shower for some soap and conditioning cream for my naturally frizzy hair. Everything in the shower looks handmade and expensive, but I tell myself, better to borrow than to smell like the night before.

As I work the conditioner through my hair, I hear the song "Lent" by Autoheart fill the room. I smile and think how if only I had more time, this is a man I would love to spend many a Saturday night with.

As I turn off the water, I hear George ask me if I would like tea and what kind. “The caffeinated kind!” I answer. Generally, I’m a coffee drinker, but when in London…

As I exit the bathroom in my towel, my wet hair a mess, he asks if I like milk. “Just a dash.” And he hands me the tea. He, too, is in just a towel, around his waist. More sober this morning, I ask him about the polo mallet and helmet.

“Those belonged to a friend of mine, he was going to get rid of them, but I thought they could make good décor, so I took them.”

“Do you play polo?”

“I do, he and I made a trade: I taught him to ski and he taught me to play polo.”

“We have a pretty good polo scene in DC.” I’m honestly just trying to impress him now.

He looks at my skeptically. “Honestly! There are polo fields on the National Mall, every June my friends and I go to a match between the American and Mexican National team for Charity.”

We speak a little bit more about it, but then he’s looking through his phone. “Sorry, the offices in the Middle East are open today, they take Friday and Saturdays off, so now everyone is replying to the emails I sent on Friday.” I can see a myriad of unopen messages as he scrolls through his phone. I replay that sentence in my head, who is this man?

“I should probably get going, can I be incredibly rude and ask you for your wifi log in?”

“Oh of course!” he takes my phone from my hand, selects a network and inputs a password and hands it back. Instantly email, instagram, and facebook notifications start to in pour in. Bumble notifications from the messages I sent the day before also come in as I furiously try to dismiss them.

He walks to the kitchen and grabs my still somewhat wet dress. It absolutely reeks of wine. I sigh dramatically as I step into it. “Well, this may be an awkward journey back to my bed and breakfast.”

“Where are you staying? I'll call you a cab.” I smile, thankful for this offer of kindness. I tell him the name and it’s five minutes away.

While we wait, I look at the photos lining his wall that leads down to the stairs to his front door. He points out which one is him among the many many young men in army uniforms. He has not changed much in the past nineteen years, save for a few more lines around his eyes. He walks me down to the entrance, kisses me good bye and I walk up to the car with the correct license plate.

I open the door, “Picking up?” “For George?” he asks. “Yes,” I confirm as I step in and close the door. He says the address of my Bed and Breakfast. “Perfect, thank you.” He drives off and I stare wistfully out of the window, watching London wake up on this bright Sunday morning.