The Eighth Girl

by Maxine Mei-Fung Chung

  Three hairy guys who appear to be in their late thirties look up and follow Ella with their eyes as she glides toward me. Watch her as she kisses me square on the mouth. She turns to the men, then drops the mint sweater seductively off her shoulder and smiles.

  I spot a copy of Sartre’s Being and Nothingness resting on the table, obscured by women’s style magazines. Philosophy and fashion not the easiest of bedfellows, yet add a dash of art and it makes for a lively ménage à trois.

  “Hey, Simone,” I say.

  “Hey, Bangs,” Ella flirts.

  I reach over and give Grace a hug. She looks up briefly from Snapchat, a yellowing zit on the end of her nose.

  “Have you ordered?” I ask.

  Ella gives her beret a little tweak. “Meh.” She shrugs, perching her oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses on her nose. “You order. We’ve had breakfast.”

  “And it’s a rip-off,” Grace dares, adding: “Five quid for a smoothie!” which is rewarded by Ella’s curt grunt.

  A waitress appears.

  “Still deciding,” I say.

  She sighs only slightly, but immediately I pick up on her irritation. A curl to her plum-tinted lip.

  “Snotty cow.” Grace sneers at the waitress’s slim back.

  “Shh!” Ella curbs.

  “Well, she is! Did you see the way she looked at us?”

  Ella picks at delinquent pills on Grace’s red sweater.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she says, Grace nudging aside her plucking hand, “I wanna get a new job.”

  “How come?” I ask.

  “I’m broke,” she speaks bluntly. “It’s all right for you. You can leave Chen’s when your photography career takes off. You’ll be fine, and move on.”

  “Move on?”

  “To better things.”

  “You’re being silly, Ella.”

  “Pfft,” she rejects with a flick of her wrist. “Anyway, did you send your portfolio in for that job you wanted?”

  “Yeah, I included those portraits of you that I took on the heath. Remember?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I remember. So what now?”

  “I guess I just wait and see if I get an interview. It would be so amazing to work for Jack Carrasqueiro. You know, I even based part of my college thesis on his photography.”

  “I’m sure you will,” she says, sulking. “You’ll probably get the job too. Then what will I do?”

  Currently I work part-time in a Chinese takeaway on the Euston Road. I’d spotted the advertisement stuck down with two Band-Aids in a window veiled with a grubby curtain and several red paper lanterns while on my way to class my senior year.

  Wanted: Person to work. Must be honest and able to add. Apply within.

  I was both and needed some sort of income, so decided to give it a shot. My guess is that Mr. Chen took me on because I could (1) add, (2) look relatively honest (I smiled a lot), and (3) speak Mandarin.

  Mr. Chen likes to cuss in his mother tongue. Finds it amusing when he hands curt customers their order calling them “greedy pig-swilling radish brains” or “stupid, ugly baboon breath” in Mandarin, all the while smiling and thanking them in pidgin English. I like Mr. Chen. He’s funny. And kind. Insists that I take food home after every shift: “You too thin, you like a stick. Stick insect!” he says, the comment not helped by the nuclear oral stench that radiates from all that raw garlic he insists on chewing. And while I don’t mind working at Mr. Chen’s and indulging his silliness and obsessions with the Queen, it’s my hope that I will eventually have a career in photography and get a job that I love. Indeed, a job that I’m actually good at. Also, Anna was insistent, come to think of it, that I get a “proper” job now that I’ve finished college. So when I saw the photographer’s assistant position with Jack, I applied and hoped for the best.

  “Well?” Ella snaps again, defiant. “What about me?”

  Grace looks up.

  “We both know my mum can’t hold down full-time work,” she starts up again, “she isn’t capable. And I’m sick of having to pay the bills.”

  I shrug, wishing Ella would stop being such a bitch, yet knowing Mrs. Colette’s depression has caused many an employer to relieve her of work in the past.

  Ella lowers her voice. “So, I heard there’s a job going—”

  “Where?” I say.

  “The Electra.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “Reception and bar work.”

  “You’d be working with Shaun?”

  “He was the one who told me about it. He said he’d put in a good word with his boss.”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s a bad idea. Those kind of clubs, I’ve heard they treat the girls real bad and—”

  “Listen,” she interrupts, “I’d only have to work two nights to make what I earn at Jean&Co. in a week.”

  “But—”

  “Two nights!” she insists. “And anyway, I’ve been thinking. I really want a place of my own. Somewhere small, but mine, with my things.”

  Grace suddenly looks up.

  “Don’t worry, you can always come stay with me.”

  Grace smiles.

  I take Ella’s hand, impressed by her ambition. The waitress returns.

  “Can I get a green smoothie?” I ask.

  She turns to Ella and Grace, pen midair.

  “That’s all,” I say.

  One of the three hairy guys next to us makes a sign for the bill. Noting their distraction, Ella lowers her glasses and, all of a sudden, releases an incredulous laugh for no apparent reason while curving her shoulder in their direction. The amorous performance takes me by surprise.

  “Kill me now,” Grace says, hiding her face in her nail-bitten hands.

  The guys look over. Bemused and intrigued, I think, with Ella’s outburst. I’ve no doubt that if Ella dropped her cool, her swag, she would still be left with pure, painless beauty, like the promises in Vogue. She removes her sunglasses and leans over.

  “So. How’d it go with the shrink?” she whispers.

  “Good,” I say. “I like him.”

  “Is that a credential, that you like him?”

  “Beats not liking him.”

  “Is he cute?” she teases.

  “He’s my shrink!”

  The waitress arrives with my tall glass of goo, which I down in as few gulps as possible, knowing it’s good stuff, but all the same.

  Ella pulls a wretched face.

  “I hope you’re not gonna become one of those god-awful bores who only eats clean food and has her ass flushed every six months. What’s it called? Colonic, colonic irri—”

  “Irrigation,” I say.

  “See! You even know the name of it. Vrai?”

  “True,” I reply, holding up Being and Nothingness. “But I’ll only stop being a god-awful bore if you leave your boyfriend Sartre at home and stop pretending to be all française.”

  “Deal. Though hell is other people.” Ella grabs her bag. “Drink up,” she says, eyeing the guys about to leave.

  I finish the goo, paying careful attention to the taste of lemon and spinach. “Ready.”

  “Let’s go,” Ella sings. “Wait till you see this jacket I want. It’s divine!”

  Standing, Ella and Grace smooth their matching bobs.

  “Divine,” Grace echoes.

  The three of us lurch onto the escalator. Impatient, Ella starts to climb while checking her slim silhouette in the panes of glass. At the third floor, we jump off, surrounded by luxury items. Ella clearly knows where she’s going and makes a beeline, Grace in tow, for an industrial clothes rail suspended from the ceiling.

  “Can I help you with anything?” a sales assistant asks, thrilled, I imagine, at the prospect of paying customers.

  “We’re just looking.” Ella smiles.

  The sales assistant turns on her heel. Begins to straighten a stripy mohair sweater, aligning it with a bell jar—a stuffed crow inside. Several necklaces hanging from
its beak. I think a magpie would have made more sense, but still, it’s an effective display. We stop at the floating clothes rail, Ella sighing with pleasure and fixing her eyes on what I imagine is the jacket. But just as Ella’s hand reaches to pull out her little piece of heaven, another hand swoops in—

  “Sorry.” Both voices chime simultaneously.

  For once, I’m relieved to say the synchronized voices are not mine—a tall, pretty girl with hair like butter and gold hoop earrings steps back, smiles, and then pulls her hand away.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” She smiles.

  “Yeah.” Ella sighs, stroking the soft arm of the fawn leather jacket as if it were a pussycat.

  “Do you have this in a size ten?” the girl shouts over her shoulder.

  The sales assistant says she will check, then totters off in search of the perfect ten. Ella, however, takes the existing jacket off the rail and tests its size, sliding herself into its creamy leather arms. She strokes it again, this time with both hands.

  “Stunning,” I say wistfully.

  “Yeah, it looks great,” the girl repeats, both of us nodding and admiring its flawless fit while Ella coos and purrs. I reach around the back of the jacket’s soft leather collar, my hand feeling like it’s entered the pouch of a baby kangaroo, and check the price tag.

  “Are you serious?” I squeal, causing Grace to flinch.

  “What?” Ella smiles.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “But it’s worth it. Don’t you think?”

  “No!” I say, pulling my hand away.

  The girl looks at us, bemused, the sales assistant returning with the size ten draped across her arm like a giant restaurant napkin, then offers it to the girl.

  “I’ll take it!” the girl sings. Not bothering to try it on. Just like that. Bam.

  I turn to Ella, her face now morphed into a contorted, sadder version of itself while the girl saunters off to pay. Watching her replace the jacket on its hanger, it’s all I can do not to whip out my bank card right there on the spot and shout, “We’ll take it!” completely emptying my savings to ease Ella’s longing. I attempt a smile, but Ella simply shrugs. Her heart clearly sick.

  “Why don’t we look around?” I suggest, hoping the distraction might help her disappointment, but it appears Ella’s sick heart is no longer in it. Instead she stays rooted to the spot. Ogling the jacket.

  Grace, now bored, wanders toward a set of mannequins, all without heads, and fiddles with a leather purse diagonally draped over one of their shoulders. As I pull out a random denim skirt, folded next to the stuffed crow, I catch Ella staring at the girl and her new jacket. Longing replaced now with a pursed lip.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Ella says, giving the jacket one final stroke. “I’m taking us all for sweet bagels. Extra cinnamon and cream.”

  Head thick with unease, I bend down and stare into the bell jar. The crow’s trapped beady little eyes staring back, deadened and glassy. It’s as if they’ve been watching us all along. Our every move reflected back in their icy black glare. Slowly I stand, the crow’s gaze now pursuing me as I trail Ella and Grace out toward the escalator.

  Following behind, I notice their pace quickening as if in search of something or someone. But as I draw closer I lurch backward. My eyes not quite believing. Ella thrusting what appears to be the fawn leather jacket deep into her bag. She nods to Grace—the two of them now streaming ahead—sleek as wind. Their focus pinned, relentless. Like thieves in the night.

  5

  Daniel Rosenstein

  Every Friday at ten a.m., I attend my weekly AA meeting in Angel. For eleven years I’ve visited the same church, or rather, the same rec room in the same church, and sat beside other recovering alcoholics. On occasion, even after all these years, I can still struggle if someone looks at me the wrong way or if life feels too good. Or if someone I love rejects or distances themselves. “Never get too comfortable or let your guard down,” an early sponsor once said to me, “not until you’ve notched up some sobriety.”

  For an hour and a half, I sit and mostly listen. Sometimes I share. And at the end of it I’m still surprised at how each time my spirits are lifted. Any earlier resentments or self-preoccupation eventually set down. The intimacy with other recovering alcoholics often providing a remedy for my tender loneliness. Sometimes I ask myself whether they all meet at night—for a Chinese or Indian meal, or the cinema maybe. And whether they’ve simply given up asking me because I’ve refused so many times. Paranoia revealing itself, I realize I’m being sensitive and let it drop.

  Today I know everyone here, apart from a couple of newcomers. Both of them young men in their twenties. Resting a bottle of water beside my brogued foot, I wait for the chatter to settle down. Opposite me, an old-timer, twenty years sober, who up until last year was militant around any kind of medication, including aspirin. Then his mother died, and it was clear he needed a little help. Once a man, twice a child. Next to him sits a single mother of three, seven years sober. She struggles and avoids eye contact with the men in the group. Keeps her legs crossed at all times. Today she shifts awkwardly in her chair, her face flushed and swollen. A slight shake to her voice.

  “This morning,” she begins, “my eldest son said I preferred his sister to him. He’s probably right. My mother did the absolute opposite. She hated me, preferred my brother.”

  Recovering addicts will often look for reasons to make sense of the monkey on our backs. Hateful mothers, violent fathers. Broken homes. And as a result, we the addicts act on that hurt, finding brief ease in all manner of habits. For some of us, the chemical condition marked by irresistible craving transforms our affliction from a defect of character into a disease, making it a hybrid of the medical and the moral. But in my journey, I believe it to be a moral issue; that is, my desire. My desire, and my struggle to control it. I look about the room, wondering about the desire within each of us—how well we do now to rein it in, like a leathered fist guiding a wild horse, dust rising from the filth beneath our feet.

  When I reach Kabuki, the maître d’ asks for a name.

  “Rosenstein, two for one p.m.,” I say, noting his slim waist, a neat snazzy waistcoat. Our usual table overlooks the miniature Zen garden, raked and pruned within an inch of its life. I enjoy our monthly Friday lunches. Unfortunately, we had to forgo it last month because Mohsin was giving a talk at the Royal College of Psychiatrists, something he is frequently asked to do and enjoys doing.

  “Your guest is already here, sir.” The maître d’ smiles. “Please, follow me.”

  Trailing the maître d’ past the heavy cherry silk kimono hanging at the entrance, I think about what I’ll order: the shishito peppers to start, followed by salmon teriyaki. Occasionally we share some snow crab rolls or rock shrimp, but today I intend on sticking to the two courses, painfully aware of my midlife waistline and its slow expansion. Saliva rises in my mouth and I begin envisioning the Pretty Freckled Waitress who usually serves us. Perhaps she’ll be here today, I think, aware of my choice of jacket, new and fitted.

  Two waiters stand at opposite ends of the bar like bookends and nod politely. Between them, a flashy barman. The top of his Calvin Klein underwear showing. Fool, I curse, and then catch myself. Aware the ridiculous outburst of envy is tied up in feeling old—certainly older than my fifty-five years. Immediately I smile to myself and forgive the fool.

  Scanning the crowded room for the Pretty Freckled Waitress, I hear Mohsin’s voice.

  “Daniel!” He waves.

  I wish he wouldn’t do that, shout and draw attention to himself that way. I give a small wave back in acknowledgment, still searching for the freckled one.

  We embrace.

  “Hey, good to see you. Nice jacket.”

  “Thanks, it’s new,” I say.

  “Very smart. At a guess, one might think you’re trying to impress a particular cute waitress.”

  “Perceptive.”

  “Monica will have your guts
.”

  “Monica will never know.”

  The moment the words leave my lips, guilt tugs at my throat. A memory of my father and his lies still a constant source of pain.

  Seated, I notice a small water fountain has been given a home in the Zen garden: a chubby Buddha made of gray stone, beaded jade necklace resting on top of his abundant tummy, rotund and satisfied. I look down and breathe in, loosening my shirt with a tug. I wonder how he can be so pleased with himself, carrying all that weight around, then look about the restaurant and see most of the guests mirroring our jolly fat friend.

  Amused, Mohsin relaxes.

  “How is Monica?” he asks. “You guys must be coming up to a year pretty soon.”

  “September fifteenth.”

  “Doing anything?”

  “Monica’s made a list. I just have to choose one.”

  “Romantic.” He laughs. “You guys still going to swing classes?”

  “We haven’t been in a while,” I say, a bite of grief quickly upon me.

  My Clara loved to dance.

  In ’86, I met Clara at a beneficiary fund where she was helping raise money for the far-leaning left. She happened to be on a gap year from college but instead of backpacking in Europe or getting high on some East Asian island, opted for political fund-raising instead. At twenty-three years old she wasn’t green to organizing. A second-generation red-diaper baby and the daughter of parents sympathetic to the United States Communist Party, she’d been exposed to Castro from a young age, and Marx even younger. Fund-raising was second nature to Clara; excuses to not get involved were not. She was a fighter who was keen to do the right thing by the people. At night, I’d catch her reading, almost secretly and fevered, Mao’s pamphlets: “Combat Liberalism,” “On Protracted War,” “Talks at the Yenan Forum on Literature and Art.” Her strong legs tucked beneath her, a cigarette in hand. I could watch for hours, concentration pinned on important words, an occasional smile thrown my way like a bone.