Clark slipped on his jacket and picked up the boxes. "Have a wonderful evening, Lois," he said, hoping he didn't sound too insincere.
"Thanks," she said. "Bye, Clark." She opened the door. He walked through it. The door closed.
And his brief presence in Lois's life ended.
Clark wandered dejectedly down the corridor, mourning the loss of something that had never been his.
As he waited for the elevator, Lois's phone rang. Before he had the chance to close down his hearing, he heard her say, "Hi, Lucy."
The doors of the elevator grated open. It was empty. Clark didn't enter; instead, he went to the stairs and descended a few steps. He stopped, stalled by an idea that had sprouted in the cloud of his misery.
If he waited here, he would see Claude as he passed by on the way to Lois's apartment.
Collecting memories to fuel his torment was a stupid idea, but Clark couldn't help himself. He took less than a second to return the boxes to his apartment and then dropped back onto the steps to await the arrival of the luckiest man on the planet.
Part 5
Lois's mind reeled as her body collapsed against the wall.
"No," she said into the phone. "No. You're wrong. It was someone else."
"Lois," Lucy said. "It was him. He was French. He said his name was Claude. He fits your description perfectly."
"You've never seen Claude. A description could fit dozens of men."
"Metropolis is just bursting with womanising Frenchmen called Claude," Lucy said, heavy with sarcasm.
"My Claude is on his way to my apartment," Lois said stiffly. "We have a date."
"He called you? He called to say he's coming?"
"He'll be here," Lois said, unwilling to admit that Claude hadn't returned any of her calls in the past two days.
"He won't be there, Lois," Lucy said. "After he hit on me, Adam told him to leave, and then he went over to a woman and squeezed her butt. She spun around and flung her arm at him. Her engagement ring caught him across the neck."
"What happened then?" Lois asked, wondering if there was any possibility of a story.
"Another woman came to his defence and gave him a handkerchief to wipe up the few spots of blood. There was a short disagreement - the first woman accused Claude of sexual assault - and then he left with the second woman."
"It wasn't Claude," Lois insisted. "He can't be at High Spirits because he has a date with me tonight."
"Lois," Lucy said, her voice crackling with frustration. "I'm trying to help you here."
"By calling to crow because you're with Adam and you think I'll be spending Valentine's Day alone?" Lois demanded.
"Of course not," Lucy said with a sigh of resignation. "Just … just try not to be too blind, sis."
"I'm not blind at all," Lois said. "I know a good man when I meet one." She slammed down the phone and leaned over her counter, gripping it tightly as she tried to calm the surge of dismay souring her insides.
It couldn’t be true.
Claude had a date with her. It was Valentine's Day. Tonight meant something. It was important to both of them.
It was going to represent a new step in their relationship.
Lois straightened and went to the stove. She stirred the rice, turned off the heat, and banished Lucy's call from her mind.
Preparing the meal had been fun. She'd enjoyed Clark's company. He'd taught her with good-natured patience. He hadn't ridiculed her lack of knowledge. He'd shown genuine concern when the garlic had stung her eyes. He hadn't used their chance meeting as an opportunity to ask her to speak with Perry on his behalf.
He hadn't capitulated to her attempts to wriggle out of cooking, but he'd been considerate in ensuring she had sufficient time to prepare for her date while he'd seen to the boring bits like cleaning up and making the salad.
Her apartment looked great and smelled fantastic … welcoming, warm, prepared.
Everything was perfect. It was going to be a night she would remember forever.
The clock ticked over to seven-thirty.
Lois glanced to her door, willing a knock to sound in announcement that her date has arrived.
He would be here, she told herself fiercely. He would be. Lucy had made a mistake. How dare she think she could accuse Claude simply because a Frenchman had behaved badly?
The minutes crawled past.
Lois checked her image in the mirror. Clark had said she looked amazing, and she hadn't missed the veiled glimmer of appreciation in his eyes. By now, their cooking class had probably receded from his mind as he eagerly hurried to meet his date.
Lois wandered to the fridge and opened it. She took out the bowl and inspected the salad. The ingredients had been cut with neat precision and arranged like a work of art. Lois sighed. Clark had done everything to make the evening special.
He'd said there would be something to accompany the coffee. She searched the fridge again and found a plate of lightly browned swirly mounds, joined together in pairs with dark icing.
She lifted the plastic wrap and inhaled.
The aroma of rich chocolate tantalised her senses.
Clark was so sweet. He'd thought of everything.
Resisting the temptation to appease her gnawing stomach with a premature taste, she returned the plate to the fridge.
Seven-forty arrived without Claude. Lois deliberately turned away so she couldn't watch the clock mark each passing second and filled her mind with a thousand reasons why he was running late and hadn't called.
Seven-forty-five approached, passed, and left her in its wake.
At seven-fifty, Lois turned off the heat under the butter chicken.
It was time to face the truth.
Claude wasn't coming.
Last week, he had cancelled their date. At least he'd bothered to call.
Tonight … nothing.
She snatched a tissue from its box.
Claude wasn't coming.
Their relationship would never amount to anything.
It had never really begun, and now, it was over.
A sob escaped from her throat. Her tears rose, acid with mortification. How could she, an award-winning reporter known for her ability to cut through the extraneous and uncover the truth, be so blindly naive when it came to her heart?
That's what hurt the most. Not losing Claude, but the knowledge that she could be so easily duped by a superficial attraction.
Then, it came.
The knock on the door.
For a moment, Lois couldn't move. Then, she hurriedly wiped her eyes, patted down her hair, hauled in a breath, smiled, and opened the door.
Clark Kent stared back at her.
Her glutinous mind could form no words. He seemed similarly stuck, gaping at her, his throat bobbing.
"Clark," she spluttered eventually. "You forgot something?"
"No. No. I …"
"You?"
"I heard …" His face had passed through multiple shades of pink and was approaching crimson. "I heard you cry." He looked down, shoulders forward, as if awaiting her rebuke.
"You left my apartment half an hour ago," Lois said.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you go home?"
"I … I -"
"You kept her waiting?"
He looked up. "Kept who waiting?"
"Your date."
"I don't have a date."
"You don't?"
"No."
His confusion caused a gurgle of laughter to burgeon into her throat. "It seems that I don't either," she said, her statement edged with hysteria.
"You don't?" he said with sympathy.
"He didn't come. Didn't call."
"Ah, Lois." Clark took a step forward, his hand raised. "I'm sorry. You went to so much effort. You must be devastated."
Strangely, she'd moved on already. Only embarrassment lingered, but it was a small price to pay for finally being able to see Claude's true colours. "You don't have a date for Valentine's Day?" she asked.
"No." His hand dropped, sliding into his pants pocket.
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No."
That was absolutely, positively the best news Lois had heard in a very long time. She smiled, stepped back, and fully opened her door. "Come on in," she said. "I have a delicious home-cooked meal, and I can't eat it all by myself."
"Lois …" Clark grimaced. "I can't."
"Why not? You said you don't have a girlfriend."
"But you have a … a guest. You said this was important to you."
"It was," she admitted. "But I've learned some things today."
"Like how to make butter chicken?" he said with a sad smile.
"Other things, too." She gestured for him to enter. "Please, Clark. Please come and share our meal."
Still, he hesitated. "Lois …"
"Yes?"
"You can't know how much I want to spend this evening with you, but you're feeling angry and disappointed now and I don't want you to do anything you might regret later."
"Like what?"
"If your guest … Claude … finds out we had dinner together, it might ruin any chance you have of fixing -"
"I don't want to fix it. It's finished."
"I -"
Lois took Clark's hand and yanked him into her apartment. She closed the door, and in a moment of clarity, realised only the truth would save her from appearing opportunistic and shallow. "I had hoped there might be something with Claude," she said. "He's handsome, charming, charismatic, and glamorous. He's also unreliable, selfish, egotistical, and untrustworthy. Whether you stay and eat dinner with me or leave now, I've finished with Claude."
Clark's brow knotted with indecision.
Lois continued. "I realise it looks as if I'm using you as a convenient replacement, but the truth is …" She smiled nervously. "The truth is, I really like you, Clark, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather be with on Valentine's Day."
He shuffled a little, looked down at his feet, and then faced her squarely. "Lois, I like you, too. A lot. I -"
Harsh, loud banging vibrated her door. Lois's eyes swung from Clark to the door and back again.
"You should get that," he said.
She opened the door.
Claude was there, dressed in an expensive shirt, pants of the latest fashion cut, and a flashy scarf befitting his debonair style. He was holding a huge bunch of red roses and a bottle of champagne, and smiling as if he'd just won the lottery.
--~--
The knock had shattered Clark's hopes. He'd slid his glasses down his nose and looked through Lois's door. He known it was Claude, even before Lois's surprised, squeaky utterance of her date's name.
"Lois," Claude said. "Ma cherie. I am here. You have cooked? It smells heavenly." He swaggered into her apartment and swept her into his arms, planting his mouth on hers.
Clark looked away, a quiverful of arrows piercing his heart.
Lois drew back. "You're late," she said with such evenness that it was impossible to gauge her true feelings about Claude's tardiness.
"My sweet Lois," he said. "I was unavoidably detained. You know I'm very busy. And then I stopped to buy roses …" He held them towards her. "… and champagne - which had to be of sufficient quality to match the exquisite meal you promised me."
Lois glanced at the bottle, but she didn't take either of Claude's gifts.
"You are upset," Claude said. "I should have called, but that would have taken more time, and I was longing to be with my sweetheart." He looked at Lois with soulful eyes. "I am sorry, my Lois. Please forgive me."
Lois stared steadily at him, silent. Claude's gaze shifted from Lois, and he seemed to notice Clark's presence for the first time.
"Who is this?" he asked, also employing a carefully even tone.
"This is my culinary instructor," Lois informed him.
Surprise, and perhaps relief, flooded Claude's expression as he regarded Clark. "A culinary instructor? So he is about to leave?"
"He's been teaching me how to cook."
Claude gave a hesitant smile. "It smells splendid, ma cherie. I cannot wait for us to begin." He took a step closer to Clark. "Thank you for assisting Lois. You may leave now."
Clark looked at Lois, awaiting her instruction. Her attention was fixed on Claude. "Take off your scarf," she said.
"I have been unwell," Claude said. "Would you mind terribly if it remained? It is from Paris. Made of pure silk."
"Take it off."
"Don't be silly, Lois. It is not important I remove -"
Lois stepped forward and tugged at the scarf, revealing a solitary red welt flared across his neck. "How did you get that?" she asked.
"A misunderstanding," Claude said, quickly returning the scarf to his neck. "I merely asked a question, and the woman -"
"Were you at High Spirits? The bar in Seventh Avenue? Were you there tonight?"
"I know that bar. It is one of the best in Metropolis. I can take you there if you -"
"Were you there an hour ago? Did you hit on a brunette who was with her date? Did you get that scratch because you couldn't keep your wandering hands to yourself and the woman you groped didn't take kindly to you forcing your attentions on her?"
Claude's mouth dropped with shock, and he pointed at Clark. "You have been having an affair," he screeched with indignation. "You can cook. Why would you need a cooking teacher? He's your plaything, coming here to take my -"
"Get out!" Lois screamed.
Claude dropped the roses and approached Clark, menacingly poking the bottle in front of Clark's face. "You dirty dog," he said, his words seared with contempt. "You sneak in here and help yourself to my woman. In France, we do not tolerate such reprehensible behaviour." He raised the bottle behind his head.
"Claude!" Lois shrieked. "Don't be stupid. You need to leave now."
"I am not leaving until I have taught this dog a lesson," Claude said. "He must realise that my woman is not his to -"
Lois lunged at him. Claude lifted his left hand to fend her away. Clark pushed Claude's arm down. Claude swung the bottle at Clark's head. Clark fended off the blow, and captured both of Claude's arms in a grip of steel.
Claude kicked out at Clark's legs. "Let me go, you filthy woman-stealing -"
"Get out, Claude!" Lois hissed. "Get out now."
"I am not leaving until -"
With a swift movement, Clark swung Claude over his shoulder, carried him through the door, and dumped him in the corridor. Lois followed, flinging the bunch of roses at him. "Don't come back," she said to the crumpled heap. "I never want to see you again."
From his position on the floor, Claude pointed at Clark. "You will pay for this," he snarled. "No one touches my woman and -"
Lois slammed the door and leant against it, shaking.
"Are you all right?" Clark asked, standing as close to her as he dared and clenching his fist in an effort to keep from touching her.
She looked up, her eyes wide with shock. "D…did he hurt you?"
"No. I'm -"
"I thought he was going to smash …" Her expression crumbled, tears flooding her eyes. She covered her face with her hands.
Clark lightly touched her shoulder. She didn't back away. Unable to stop himself, he eased her away from the door and wrapped her in his arms.
She tensed a little. Relaxed slightly. Encouraged, he nestled her closer, angry with Claude for having hurt her, but unable to quell his delight that she was willing to accept his, Clark's, comfort.
He would have liked to hold her forever, but too soon, Lois slipped out of his embrace and turned away.
"Lois?" Clark took a step closer.
"Why do I always get it so wrong?" she cried, spinning around. "I'm an independent, successful woman of the nineties, but I always choose jerks who pretend to be one thing and turn out to be something completely different."
"Being able to see the best in people is an admirable quality," Clark said.
"But I don't!" she fired back. "I see things that aren't there, and I miss the obvious. Like Claude!" She pointed at the door. "How could I miss that he hits on anything in a skirt? How could I have been willing to overlook that he's rude and inconsiderate? How could I have thought …"
With a sob, she slumped into the sofa.
Clark crouched at her knee. He waited while she stared ahead, her fingers knotting in her lap. He watched her fight for control, understanding both her need for release and her aversion to breaking down in front of someone who was little more than a stranger.
Through sheer willpower, she won the battle, and looked directly at him, her eyes glazed with the shield of detachment.
"Thank you for coming and cooking with me," she said in a cool voice. "I think it would be best if you left now."
