by Valley Sams
“He must be here somewhere,” she said, speaking to herself more than Mac and Louis, who were maneuvering their way through the packs of milling guests, trying to keep up with her.
“Perhaps he’s late,” Louis suggested. He had to raise his voice slightly over the drum and bass music that seemed to fill every inch of the gallery, despite the cathedral ceilings.
Once a church in a part of the city that everyone but the locals avoided, it had been transformed into one of the most coveted venues in town. In fact, the entire neighborhood had been dragged along with it. Hipsters and celebrated artists had taken over the area, shellacking all the dated signs and crumbling architecture with a heavy layer of irony.
It was the place to see and be seen, apparently.
Sabrina looked back at her friends, the pink blush on her cheeks beginning to fade. “He’s not usually late.” she said. “It’s not like him. He said he’d meet us inside.”
Looking at Brie’s beautiful but troubled face, Mac felt a familiar protective urge. Firstly, because it had been years since she’d seen her friend this wrapped up in a man. Secondly because she looked positively lost in the crowd of sleek intellectuals and trendsetters.
Despite Mac’s best attempts to convince her otherwise, Brie had decided to wear the glittering shell headband she had bought for a music festival a few months back. It was practically lost in her ropes of chestnut hair that, as usual, she tied back in a thick, almost waist length ponytail. Mac had tried to convince her to get a haircut too but…
“It’s a big night for him. He’s probably just running a bit behind,” she said. Mac wrapped her arm around her friend’s bare shoulders. Now in the gallery under the lights, Brie’s cream lace vintage maxi dress practically glowed. Was she wrapping her arms around her to comfort her or to protect her? Did it matter?
“I think if we do the sensible thing and make our way to the bar, he’ll probably appear,“ Louis said. “As if by magic. A genie in the bottom of a bottle of Jameson.”
He smiled and Mac was reminded again of how handsome he really was. Like a broad shouldered grey hound, he looked a million miles away from the awkward man who had paced her on the beach half a year ago. His perfectly cut suit enhanced his angular frame; the deep black of the fabric echoed in his thick framed glasses and newly acquired shadow of a beard. Mac would never admit it, but she loved the little grey hairs that peppered the well-maintained fuzz on his cheeks. It made him look distinguished, intimidating, and if she was honest, it was a fine advertisement for just how whip smart he was.
Only Mac knew that if the gallery had a dance floor, any kind of intimidation factor the beard carried with it would be quickly dissolved by his unrelentingly embarrassing dance moves.
“I can’t very well spend my whole life in my Oxford t-shirt.” He had worked hard to justify his sprouting facial hair to Mac for the few weeks it took to blossom. “It’s like a hanging your degree on your wall,” he had decided. “But on my face.”
“Let’s get a drink.” Mac said, making a concerted effort to keep her hands to herself and focus on Brie. Brie agreed and headed toward the bar, but Mac knew her friend well enough to make out more than a hint of nervousness in her eyes. No amount of glittery seashells could conceal that.
The trio made their way through the clusters of people scattered around the floor to the small, makeshift bar in the corner. There was a line of people waiting as the two uniformed bartenders shook and mixed whatever was the latest in craft cocktails.
Louis leaned forward in the darkness to make out the menu where it was tastefully displayed in front of them.
“Canadian Martini…made with 100% organic Canadians, one would hope,” he joked. “I hear they can be quite mild mannered. We might need something stronger.” He was doing his best to drag Sabrina out of her obviously growing anxiety. Her head swiveled like an owl stalking mice on the forest floor.
“Paul said he’d meet me for a drink before the award was handed out and that’s in like…ten minutes.” She checked her phone for the hundredth time for a message. In the light that sprang from the phone, Mac couldn’t help but notice the woman in front of them noticeably jump and look over her shoulder. Irritated, Brie flipped between apps and messages “No Paul, no Paul, and nope…not Paul,” she growled. “I really wanted to you guys to meet him beforehand.”
Mac watched, as the woman seemed to struggle to stop herself from turning around and staring. Even in the half-light, Mac could make out a heavy flush on her golden skin. Her eyes even seemed to widen every time Brie mentioned her new boyfriend’s name.
When the woman hadn’t noticed that the people in front of her had already taken their drinks and left, Mac seized the opportunity to interact.
“You’re up,” she said, perhaps a bit too hastily. Still, she was curious. The woman turned to them, examining Brie unabashedly. There was something wild in those eyes that seemed too large for her lean, middle-aged face. She didn’t move but simply stared.
“Are you…” Louis began, motioning toward the two bartenders who were practically pacing with impatience. Louis’s voice was enough to break her trance and she looked sharply in his direction.
“Yes, of course. Sorry…” Even though she was mumbling, it was easy to detect her soft Indian accent. “I’ll just…” She trailed off and turned, clutching her very expensive bag to her chest like a floatation device.
The three of them glanced at each other as the woman hastily moved forward and ordered a glass of red wine.
“What was that all about?” Brie whispered as the woman scuttled out of their way. “Did I do something to offend her?“
“Maybe it’s the shells.” Louis said.
Mac whacked him firmly on the shoulder.
‘’Very funny, Prince Charles,” Brie said. She was about to launch into him further when her phone came alive in her hand, buzzing and tweeting. She audibly gasped and quickly scanned the text. “He’s in the green room in the back.” She said, pure joy radiating out of her. “I’m going to go run and see him. Can you grab me a whiskey sour? Back in a bit…” In less seconds than it took to read the text, she disappeared into the crowd, the lacy hem of her dress quickly swallowed up by the sea of black around them.
Mac was just enjoying her first sips of an ice-cold dirty martini when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Not a gentle one either…more of an irritated rapping than anything else. She turned, half expecting to find a security guard ordering her and Louis out.
Instead, she was face to face with the woman from the bar line. Those haunted eyes seemed to swallow her up and she instinctively took a few steps back.
“Your friend. Does she mean Paul Creed? The same Paul Creed getting the award tonight?” Mac was immediately irritated. Firstly, she had some pretty clear rules when it came to personal space and secondly, the woman’s tone was far from gentle inquiry.
“Yes.” Mac said. The woman’s wine glass was already almost empty. How long had that taken her? Five minutes tops?
“Paul Creed, inventor of Cartistry?” Mac was unimpressed with vagaries in general and she found herself becoming more annoyed with the helpless woman in front of her. All the way through her interrogation, she looked Mac up and down in the most openly critical way imaginable; not that she had anything to criticize. In addition to her obsessively analytical mind, Catharine Mackenzie had an impeccable sense of style and the kind of income that allowed it to flourish. Her pants were perfectly tailored to fit her slim runners build and the blouse she had bought online was the kind that came with a personal thank you from the independent design firm itself. Stare away, Mac thought, crossing her arms defensively.
“Paul Creed, professor of the NYU Computer Science Department?”
“Oh you mean, Paul Creed, my friend’s boyfriend?” Mac had had enough. “Her current flavor of the day, you mean? Yes, then…that Paul Creed.” She immediately regretted her cutting remark. The woman’s eyes filled with tears and her lower lip, rimme
d with wine stained skin began to tremble at an alarming rate.
“Deena Shelat!”
Louis, who had been rubbing his new beardy friend for the entire exchange, suddenly burst forth with typical enthusiasm. “My word, Deena Shelat. What an honor.” Mac stepped aside, shocked, as Louis moved between the two of them and offered his hand. “I’m Louis. I’m a huge fan of yours. I’ve read all your papers and if I may say, your lecture at TED Talks last year was inspiring. You really make computer science interesting, which is no mean feat.”
Deena shook his hand numbly; her eyes still big and wet, like a beaten puppy.
Ms. Shelat let go of Louis’ hand and immediately grabbed Mac by the wrist. Mac gasped a bit and resisted as Deena dragged her in to whispering distance. She was strong despite her fragile appearance.
“Your friend is better off without him,” she said, her voice trembling as much as her lips. “The man has no morals. He is a hurricane of misery. Tell her to get out early. Tell her… Tell her if he can ruin a woman like me, he’ll devastate a pretty young thing in glitter and lace.” Her voice was deteriorating with emotion the more she spoke and she practically spat her last sentence out. She released Mac and turned away, bumping into happier folk that blocked her way to the exit.
“Holy…” Mac said, taking a comforting sip of her drink. “Did you hear that?” she asked Louis. Louis watched Deena make an awkward exit, his hand up at his beard again.
“I can’t believe it’s the same woman. You know she’s considered a genius…”
Mac was about to turn to Louis and swear him to silence until she had deciphered Ms. Shelat’s distressing little drama, when the music died down and the front of the gallery was illuminated.
A large man, who looked like he’d be much more comfortable in a pair of sweatpants than a suit, stepped up to a podium placed on what was once a pulpit.
“At this point, we’d like to ask our guests to have a seat and we’ll get tonight’s proceedings under way. Mr. Creed has arrived and is ready to give his acceptance speech.”
It was as if someone had announced the arrival of Barack Obama. The crowd fell into excited murmurs and they rapidly made their way to the round tables at the base of the pulpit. Those sitting began to fiddle with their phones to find the right recording apps for the occasion.
“Who is this Paul Creed guy?” Mac mumbled with rising concern.
CHAPTER THREE
Paul nervously adjusted his tie for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was perfect, of course. It had been perfect every time he checked but he had to do something with his hands. God knows he couldn’t eat. Even though there was a buffet of snacks laid out for him in what stood for a green room, he wasn’t about to go off the rails now. The man who looked back at him in the mirror was a monster of his own meticulous creation. He had worked too hard to get here.
Time magazine was there. He had seen the slovenly journalist and his photographer seated at the front. Discover Magazine, The New York Times and a herd of sweaty looking Internet reporters and bloggers… all waiting to usher him into the kind of fame he deserved. The kind of fame he had practically walked over bodies to get to.
He practiced his smile. Lately he had been working on getting his eyes to match the sincerity of the lower half of his face. Sometimes, when he wasn’t expecting it, he’d catch a glimpse of himself and what he saw behind his eyes was simply not acceptable. He saw nothing. Blank. Like he was sedated or in a coma…He needed to learn how to make them sparkle like Sabrina’s did. Her eyes practically glittered when she was delighted and there was something so pure about it. He had almost forgotten she was coming tonight but had just texted her to join him. He needed to see that glitter again, to perfect his version of it for the cameras that were about to be on him all night.
The door behind him suddenly opened, allowing a rush of excited voices to slip into his silent chamber. With the sound of laughter and music came someone less welcome. One of the last people, actually, that Paul wanted to see.
“Sayeed Mehyar. What can I do for you?” Before turning to face his rival, he tried again to perfect that human sparkle he was missing.
Sayeed looked far less humane. Barely recognizable out of the short sleeve dress shirts and chinos he tended to prefer, Sayeed walked toward him with all the intimidation that his small frame in an oversized evening suit could muster.
“You must be pleased with yourself.” He said, “All ready to walk up and stand on the shoulders of better men to get your reward?”
“Can we not? Can we not do this right now?” Paul said, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. Sayeed Mehyar had been his roommate for a few crucial years when the two of them were in graduate school. He had always considered the tiny, nervous little man to be nothing more than a rung on his way up the ladder. He had come in handy, certainly. His parents had a great deal of money and Paul discovered early on that with a little manipulation, Sayeed was willing to pay for anything Paul wanted. In actuality, Paul was able to save a substantial amount of money in those years. Unlike his peers, he graduated with a bank account fat enough to fund a richly deserved trip to Bali.
He didn’t feel guilty about it either. In fact, he didn’t feel guilty about much of anything.
“Of course,” Sayeed said, raising his tiny hands in a gesture of deference, “This is your special night, isn’t it? This is that moment of glory you’ve been working on all these years.”
Paul adjusted his suit jacket sleeves.
“Absolutely. What’s your point, exactly? I haven’t had more than a passing conversation with you in a few years at most, and you choose now to drop in. What is it you want? I’m expecting someone.”
“I want you to know,” Sayeed began, moving in closer. Paul supposed he was trying to puff himself up – to seem frightening on some level – but failing miserably. His weaselly little personage was just annoying, like an insect that Paul had to fight to stop himself from swatting away. “I want you to know that he’s here.”
Paul sighed.
‘Who? Who’s here? This is very dull, Sayeed.”
“Randall Eisenhower. He made it in. Despite your best efforts, I’m sure.” Sayeed searched Paul’s face for some sort of emotional response. Nothing. He simply stared at him; his eerily symmetrical face, which didn’t seem to have aged at all over the years, was completely placid.
“That poor fellow. It'd do him good to get out of the house, I suppose.”
It was Sayeed who was suddenly unable to control his emotions. A burst of anger seemed to race through his body, causing him to clench his hands into fists at his side. Oh how he had wanted to hit this man… Perhaps now was the time.
“Poor fellow? I know what you did to him. The exact same thing you did to me, only this time… It was much worse wasn’t it? Convincing him to stop his medication, forcing him to work all hours of the day and night, emotionally torturing him. He’s not capable of handling that kind of pressure.”
Paul shrugged.
“What is your point again? I’ve got an award to accept.”
Sayeed found himself yelling.
“It should be Eisenhower standing up there accepting that award. You stole his idea, just like you stole mine. You are a thief, Paul. You are a corrupt shell of a man. A fraud.”
For the second time in as many days, Paul skirted on the brink of losing control. The edges of his vision seemed to blur. The next thing he knew he was standing inches from the pathetic little man, staring down his nose at him. There was sweat on Sayeed’s upper lip and if Paul wasn’t mistaken he seemed to be trembling. Perfect.
“I am a fraud about to become the next Steve Jobs. I am a fraud who is about to make enough money to buy your entire family. I am joining the ranks of the hundreds of celebrated frauds to be on the cover of Time magazine. You are a sad, aging professor defending the rights of a mentally unstable kid who should probably be locked up.”
Sayeed blustered beneath him, his eyes tiny d
ots of emotion in his pale little face.
“How can you live with yourself? With what you’ve done to Deena, to Randall…to me and god knows how many other people along the way. Why do you get to flourish while the rest of us have to suffer? How do you sleep at night?”
There was a soft knock at the door and Sabrina entered. Paul flushed a deep shade of embarrassed plum when he turned to see her. She was a vision, her lovely figure wrapped in ivory, her shoulders bare and practically glimmering in the dim light of the room. She smiled at him with what was unmistakably pure adoration.
“There you are.” she breathed. She barely looked at Sayeed – she saw nothing but Paul. “I was looking for you. Are you ready? I think they’re all waiting.”
Paul began to push past Sayeed, but stopped. He bent low enough to whisper in the overwrought man’s ear.
