I swallowed. “Well, you can’t believe everything you read, especially from pissed off ex-girlfriends.”
She shrugged. “Read it. Judge for yourself.”
When the show was over I bolted over to Caden to convince him that there were more attractive women in the world than Gross Barbie Dolls.
He was still talking to the ex-girlfriend doppelgänger so I felt it was appropriate to rudely interrupt.
“Caden, how are you enjoying the party? Hi, I’m Veronica. I work for Caden,” I introduced myself to the Gross Barbie Doll.
“Hi, I’m Britney,” she shook my hand limply and I almost shuddered. There are few things more disturbing than a lifeless hand shake.
“Oh…”
“No, this is a different Britney,” Caden interjected smoothly, accurately reading my confused expression.
I couldn’t help myself from making a face. “Seriously?” So if I wanted to date Caden, I would have to get a disproportionately large boob job, dye my hair blonde, lose several million brain cells and change my name to Britney?
“Veronica, you look absolutely beautiful tonight,” Caden smiled. “And you have completely outdone yourself with this party. It’s tremendous and I’m so proud of you.”
My grimace soon melted into a loving gaze. “Thank you,” I gushed.
“You know you’re my favourite, right?” he continued. I smiled shyly. “So, I hope it’s OK if I ask you a huge favour.”
“Anything!”
“It’s Chloe,” he responded and my smile vanished. “She drank too much and I think she’s sick in the bathroom. I don’t want her to embarrass herself so can you escort her out and make sure no one sees her in this state?”
“Uh…” I racked my brain for an excuse. “What about her friends? I’m not sure she would listen to me.”
“No,” he frowned. “She seems to have gotten into a fight with her girlfriends and they don’t want to talk to her right now.”
“Nice friends,” I said.
“Please, I don’t want her to make a scene and ruin all the hard work you’ve done.”
“OK,” I assented. I would rather break up a Frederico – Hunter showdown than drag a puking Chloe out of a church. Sure enough, I found Chloe locked in a bathroom stall. Surprisingly, I heard sobbing instead of the sound of wretched puking. I didn’t know what was worse – a puking Chloe or a rabid bi-polar Chloe.
I hesitated and grimaced before I called out her name. “Chloe?” Chloe stopped sobbing but did not answer.
“Chloe, I know you’re in there,” I called out again. She didn’t respond. I hoped desperately that she hadn’t choked on her puke or other such things that pill-popping drunkards are apt do.
“Chloe? Are you OK?”
“Go away,” she finally said and started sobbing again. I rolled my eyes.
“I know, this totally sucks for me too, trust me, but I’m trying to help you get home. Do you want to go home or do you want to sleep in the bathroom stall?” I felt like I was cajoling a child. This better get me higher on The Tracker.
“It’s bad for your skin,” I added after another long silence. “You’ll probably break out the next day.”
Chloe clumsily unlocked the door. She was seated on the closed-lid toilet and slumped against the wall of the bathroom stall. Her makeup was completely ruined, black streaks of mascara running down her face, forming little black rivers cutting through the many layers of foundation, blush and powder.
“Uh…are you OK?” This was worse than I thought. I didn’t know how to handle a alcohol/drug-induced meltdown.
“I’m stupid,” she mumbled incoherently. “Stupid.”
“We’ve all drunk too much and gotten our friends mad at us. Trust me. It just happened to me,” I said, handing her some tissues to wipe her face. Her eyes were barely open. After shaking the tissues in front of her face uselessly, I placed them in her lap. “Come on, there are cabs waiting outside.” I clapped, as if she were a dog I was trying to potty train.
“No, I don’t want to…see me…this,” she hiccuped through her sobs. “Stupid…hate me.”
“It’s OK, I won’t let anyone see you,” I lied. “Do you need help getting up?”
She remained slumped on the toilet.
“What in the world?” It was the serendipitously-appearing event planner. I swear, they hired her just to follow me around in anticipation that disaster would do the same.
“Oh, thank God. You’re my new best friend. Do you think she’s all right?”
The event planner surveyed her for a moment. “Yeah,” she finally said in a nonchalant manner that, had I cared, would not have instilled much confidence in me.
“Good, can you help me put her in a cab? ”
“I’ll call security.”
“Um, can you be discreet about it? She works for Gisele and it might be career limiting if someone sees her like this.”
“No, problem, we’ll take her down the back staircase,” she responded as breezily as if I told her there was broken glass on the eye-level runway at risk of being kicked into someone’s eyes.
If someone had told me a week ago that I would be covering Chloe’s ass, I would have told them they were a rabid, pill-popping drunkard.
Chapter 19: Thank You
With Chloe dutifully sent home in a cab, and hopefully lucid enough to remember her address, I re-entered the party and was greeted by a topless and very buff male model carrying a tray of sushi. With a nod to the dominatrix-outfitted waitresses, he sported a studded collar. He had the handwritten word Lust inscribed across his overly oiled chest in what I hoped was a fake tattoo. He looked like he was cast from the last Gay Pride Parade. I did not find nudity and raw fish to be a particularly savoury combination but stuffed my face with sushi nonetheless.
And with sushi practically busting out of my mouth, I saw Caden looking at me for acknowledgement that I had completed my unpleasant assignment. I covered my mouth and gave him a thumbs up. He seemed to sigh in relief and put his hands together in a prayer position, bowing his head to me and mouthing the words thank you. I smiled as much as my sushi-packed mouth would allow and was relieved to observe that he had moved on from wooing his Gross Barbie Doll companion to networking with the Gisele suits.
I passed by the Vanity makeup stations and was dismayed to see Stevie still clinging to Frederico like Jasmine Tit to her boyfriend’s every word. Stevie was watching Frederico, enraptured, explain his art as he transformed his latest subject to a thing of beauty.
“Hey Stevie, how are you enjoying the party?” I joined the threesome at the makeup station.
“Tremendously. Almost as much I’m enjoying Frederico’s talents,” Stevie cooed.
“Wow, it’s so hot in here…it must really be irritating your rash…” I yelled loudly.
Stevie shot me a panicked look. “What rash? Where?”
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything in front of…Don’t worry, it’s not contagious,” I told Frederico. “It looks like…wow, but it just flares up when, um… he’s hot.” I motioned all over my torso with my hands. “All over.”
“Ronnie! What in God’s name are you talking about?” Stevie was rightfully outraged.
“Funny story,” I laughed to Frederico, keeping my voice at an unnecessarily high volume. “He can’t treat it with medication because it interferes with all the other prescription drugs he’s on. You know, for all his other crazy ailments.”
Frederico laughed, brushing off my attempts to undermine Stevie’s appeal. Judging by her alarmed eyes, it managed to disgust the person currently getting her makeup done by Frederico.
“What the hell, Ronnie?” Stevie was livid. “You can go now. Thanks.”
I slunk away defeated, my good intentions surely paving my path closer to hell. I saw Oompa Loompa gesturing emphatically to me to join him and Savannah by the bar. Oompa Loompa looked like he was in a very celebratory spirit. Even in the dim lighting, I could tell that his face wa
s bright red and perspiring. Savannah looked severely bored.
“Congratulations, Veronica, this is a tour de force,” Oompa Loompa engulfed me with praise.
Savannah nodded hesitatingly in agreement.
“Don’t look so stressed! This is a party!” Oompa Loompa motioned to the scary looking S&M bartender for another drink. “And it is quite the party. Very impressive. I doubt the parties are this good in New York.” He winked at me, contorting his face to squish his left eye closed.
“Oh…it was nothing,” I shrugged and shook my head, overcome with modesty, an unfortunate female tendency at this moment. “It was mostly the event planners. I can’t take the credit.”
“Nonsense!” Oompa Loompa boomed.
Savannah’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed my reaction, making me uneasy.
Oompa Loompa motioned Klaus over with the exaggerated motions of one who has consumed too much alcohol. I felt myself grow nervous enough to suddenly crave a Jägerbomb. I had wrestled over my worthiness, intelligence and competence for weeks after my last interaction with Klaus.
“Fantastic party,” Klaus approached. He smiled and nodded approvingly at a bare-chested and Lust-tattooed waiter carrying a tray of martinis. The waiter’s steroid-induced muscles were so lubed up, I hoped the tray wouldn’t slip from his greasy hands. Klaus’s gaze remained on the waiter for awhile as we stood awkwardly waiting.
Once Klaus lost sight of the lubricated waiter, he turned and greeted us gregariously. He grabbed my hand and shook it emphatically. “Congratulations, Veronica.”
My expression frozen in surprise like that of the over-Botoxed Celeste, I was speechless. I didn’t know that Klaus remembered my existence, much less knew my name.
“Fliegender Hirsch!” Klaus yelled to the bartendress and motioned to all of us by spinning a pointed index finger towards the heavens. She shook her head, confused. “Fliegender Hirsch!” he kept repeating, exasperated, wringing his hands in the air.
“It means Jägerbomb,” Savannah, apparently fluent in German frat party drinks, leaned in discreetly towards me. “Pretend you don’t know.”
“Really?” I asked, excited. Maybe Klaus and I would get along after all. “I mean, that’s disgusting.”
“It’s vile,” she shuddered. “What kind of sadist would think of mixing the two most disgusting liquids on earth?” I could think of a few more disgusting liquids I would rather not drink, such as urine and phlegm for example, but decided it wise not to share.
“I guess good marketing could sell anything,” I said.
“We’re fools,” she responded.
A dramatist, Klaus decided on flaming Sambuca, a pale comparison to the Jägerbomb, but decidedly easier to stomach than urine and phlegm. He offered a toast to the success of Gi-Spot.
“I hope our Gi-Spot is as successful as your party,” he declared with a poorly chosen adjective and uncharacteristic praise, brought on perhaps by the Sambuca.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” I responded, again made shy with modesty. In any case, I suspected that he enjoyed most parties, as long as they had a well-stocked bar and partially nude men. “A party is only as good as the people who attend.”
“Yes, this is a very beautiful, sexy party,” he approved. “The foundation of the essence of Gisele.”
I nodded, not sure of how to respond to his proclamation.
“I would like to introduce you to my friends from New York. Please excuse me for a moment.” Klaus left, leaving me alone with Savannah. Oompa Loompa had moved on to befriend the next group of innocent bystanders.
“You talk too much,” she said after a moment of self conscious silence.
I said nothing as I felt it was the most appropriate response to her comment.
“Just say thank you,” she continued.
“Thank you?” I questioned obediently.
“When someone pays you a compliment, just shut up and say thank you. Don’t start talking – you’re a train wreck.”
“Oh…I guess I’m too modest.”
“Modesty doesn’t become your career,” she replied, her face showing her disgust. “It’s infuriating. When someone gives you credit for something, take it, damn it! Don’t start giving them crap like the people make the party. Please!”
Klaus approached us with two suits in tow. They were surprisingly young, no doubt from their loyalty to Gisele’s anti-aging elixirs.
“That’s the VP of GiGi North America and the Director of Gisele North America. Remember, two words: thank you. Don’t say anything else.”
“OK,” I nodded, humbled by her severe advice.
“Veronica, please meet Monsieur Williams and Monsieur Davis.” I supposed the higher in stature you were at Gisele, the more appropriate the use of French for your title, regardless of whether or not you spoke a word of French. I shook their hands, endeavouring to appear esteemed to be in their presence.
“Wonderful party,” one suit said.
“Great job,” the other suit added.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful to have been fed a simple script by Savannah.
“This is every bit the same quality as the GiGi launch party in New York,” one suit admitted, almost grudgingly. “I didn’t know there were so many beautiful people in Toronto.”
“Thank you,” I replied, albeit probably not the most suitable response, from their suddenly furrowed brows.
“Have you met your US counterparts? You should exchange learnings with them.”
“Thank you,” I replied robotically, fearing that they would soon find me incredibly boring.
“Have you met your US counterparts?” he repeated.
I contemplated a sensible response for a moment but then stuck stubbornly to Savannah’s advice: “Thank you.”
I saw Savannah sigh and shake her head, irritated.
“Apologies Monsieur, it’s loud in here,” she jumped in. “Veronica hasn’t had a chance yet to meet her US colleagues, she’s been busy working hard on the Gi-Spot launch party and the Phat Lash launch.”
“Well, get her down there. We’d love to have her.”
I smiled, amazed at my good fortune. “Thank you.” And I must say, that was the perfect response to the perfect question.
Apocalyptic disasters averted, Gisele suits duly impressed (with the party, not my conversational abilities) and with full trust in the divine powers behind the event planners’ headsets, I set out to enjoy my party.
Not surprisingly, Mateo had practiced enough gluttonous alcohol consumption to deem it suitable to heat up the dance floor. I eagerly scanned the surrounding area for Heidi’s reaction. She was still with him so no doubt she had not yet witnessed his testosterone-stripping habit. It was admittedly evil of me to eagerly anticipate Heidi’s distress at discovering a potentially catastrophic flaw in her romantic partner, but I did not want to miss it.
Heidi was standing at the edge of the dance floor with Jasmine Tit, perhaps sharing her autonomously-derived thoughts on the party. I joined them as Mateo was warming up with The Robot.
“Hi!” I greeted them. “No worries, Chloe’s OK.”
They looked back blankly at me.
“She was sick in the bathroom,” I explained.
“Chloe was sick?” Heidi looked surprised. “When she drinks too much, she always takes off without saying goodbye so we figured she just left.”
“I hope she got home OK,” Jasmine Tit said. “I usually get my boyfriend to drive her home.” They appeared to be genuinely concerned but I found it odd that they had refused Caden’s request to help Chloe and now made no mention of it.
“Does she cry when she…uh…drinks too much?” I asked.
“Cry?” There was a flicker of guilt across Jasmine Tit’s otherwise stony expression.
“What the hell?!” Heidi exclaimed in outrage. I gleefully looked towards the dance floor. Mateo had added an unfortunate dance move to his repertoire. It was a frenetic grind/hip thrust performed off beat to the music
. The unlucky recipients of his hips’ aggressive conquest consisted of a group of good-looking girls carefully attired in this season’s most coveted fashion mandatories. They scattered like models away from a dessert platter.
“What the hell is Matthew doing?” Heidi exclaimed again.
“I don’t know, it looks like he’s having some sort of an epileptic attack,” Jasmine Tit said. I couldn’t tell from her steely expression whether she was being sarcastic. “Should we call for help?”
“That’s just the way he dances,” I replied. “The only help he needs is a dance coach.”
“Oh, he should worry all right,” Heidi warned and stormed the dance floor, pushing the recent recipients of Mateo’s hip pumps out of her way. I hadn’t anticipated that Mateo’s inferior dance moves would inspire such wrath from Heidi and was now not so sure I would enjoy the confrontation.
“Heidi used to take ballet,” Jasmine Tit explained to me, incorrectly assessing Heidi’s reaction.
Heidi grabbed Mateo’s arm to spin him around and furiously devoured his face in an aggressively ugly kiss. They made out violently to the distaste of those on the dance floor who backed away for fear of injury from the brute force of their embrace.
Jasmine Tit was consumed in shock, her usually pursed lips gaping open in horror.
“Well! I did not expect that,” I said by way of breaking the uncomfortable silence as we stared at the unapologetic display. “Who knew that bad dancing was such a turn on?” The predatory nature of their smooching was rather disturbing.
“Ew,” Jasmine Tit closed her eyes in disgust and turned her face away from the unsettling sight.
The couple stopped to breathe and ensure no oral injuries. Mateo pumped his fist in the air and hollered to all around, “My girlfriend’s hot!” He lifted her up and spun her around. “She’s my girlfriend!”
“Girlfriend?” Jasmine Tit cried out in dismay, her face crumpling into a horrified grimace.
“Look how cute they are now,” I said. He was twirling Heidi around innocently, if not ungracefully, around the dance floor.
Why I Love My Gay Boyfriend Page 16
