by William Bell
“Hi,” she said, smiling, embarrassed.
“Hi.”
She set down her carryall and opened her locker. We stood close together, flat-footed, shy and goofy, while people streamed past us paying us no notice as they scurried to class.
“You’d better kiss me and end the suspense,” she murmured.
“Good idea,” I said, and woodenly moved to do as she suggested.
“Mind the nose,” she said. “Don’t damage yourself.”
In reply I kissed her—but first on the nose, right on the little bump in the middle, then I pressed my lips against her mouth. Without breaking contact I slowly slid my arms around her waist and drew her in as she put her arms around my neck.
The buzzer right above her locker sounded, rattling my eardrums. Vanni broke the kiss.
“In the movies, people usually hear bluebirds tweeting or angels singing,” I commented.
Vanni laughed and gathered her stuff, and we headed off to the Vulture’s class.
We skipped the joys of lunch in the riotous cafeteria and headed across the street to the Blue Note, taking our usual table by the greasy window, warm with spring sun. We sat down, shrugging our coats onto the backs of our chairs. The waiter approached, wearing his bored look like a formal suit, and stood insolently by the table.
“I’ll have the usual,” I said. “We’re celebrating.”
He held his pen above the order pad, prepared to wait me out.
“Barbecued elephant ears on a sesame-seed bun,” I said. “Heavy on the mustard. A cup of beef blood to drink.”
Vanni smirked. “Hot soya milk and a butter croissant, please,” she said. “Ignore this peasant. He’s unduly frisky today.”
The waiter gave me one last chance. I ordered a cappuccino and a raisin bun. “Hold the alfalfa sprouts,” I added.
Vanni and I made small talk until our food and drinks arrived, then I said, “I want to ask you something.”
“Do I have to answer?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
“Why did you tell me you were a lesbian?”
She tore a chunk off her croissant. “Strictly speaking, I didn’t.”
“But you let me believe it.”
“True enough,” she admitted, popping the bread into her mouth.
“So why?”
“It’s pretty complicated,” she replied. “It involves psychology and everything.”
I waited.
“I guess it was one of those things that gets out of control, then it’s too late to stop it,” she said. “Remember, we were talking about the love letter you asked me to help you write?”
“Yes.”
“I was wishing the letter had been written to me, not to Alba. Then you asked me if I had a boyfriend. I said the first thing that jumped into my mind: ‘Are you applying for the job?’ I was being sarcastic—I was hiding my anger that you were in love with Alba—but at the same time I wished you would apply for the job. Then, because I felt so rejected, I had to pretend I didn’t care, so I said I wasn’t interested in boys. Which was true, in a way. I wasn’t interested in boys in the plural; I was only attracted to one boy. You. You formed the obvious conclusion. And, yes, I let you.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It is complicated.”
Vanni took a gulp of her soya milk, looking relieved, as if she had just completed a very difficult task.
“But I understand,” I added.
“Once the words were out of my mouth, it was hard to get them back in again,” Vanni explained needlessly. “Sometimes I talk before I think.”
“You told me one other fib,” I pointed out.
“Away with that.”
“It’s true. You said one time that love isn’t self-sacrificing. It’s selfish.”
Vanni looked down at the crumbs on her plate, then she raised her eyes to mine, smiling. “Guilty as charged, m’lord.”
“But you proved yourself wrong. You helped me. Over and over again. When you knew I was after another girl.”
“Ah, there was nothing on TV anyway,” she said. “I’d nothing better to do.”
“Ha. Admit it: you did it because you love me.”
“True.”
“And I was too thick to realize.”
“Also true.”
“And too self-centred.”
Vanni said nothing.
“You can stop me any time,” I said.
“You forgot something while you were busy tearing yourself down.”
“What?”
“You helped Alba when she was trying to win the heart of the gallant Mr. Bromley.”
“I did, but I had something to gain, didn’t I?”
“You would have helped her anyway.”
We sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the sun at the window and being together.
“Didjever wonder what attracted me to you in the first place?” Vanni asked.
“My sparkling personality? My vast personal wealth?”
“Your hands.”
“My—”
“That first day, in the cafeteria, after I fenced with Locheed, you were sitting there eating lunch. You were holding a very unappetizing-looking sandwich—”
“You should’ve seen the one I had the day before.”
“—in your right hand, and your left was resting on the table top. Your fingernails were cut short and you had calluses on your palms. A workman’s hands, honest and strong. And sexy.”
“So you’re after me for my body.”
Vanni grinned and her eyebrows rose. “It’s a start,” she said.
I reached into my pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper. Smoothing it out on the table top, I handed it to Vanni. “After I talked to you last night, I read some more poems by Donne. They’re hard, but the more I read, the more I liked them. This is from the one I liked best.”
On the paper I had written a couple of lines, and Vanni read them out loud.
“If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.”
Vanni lowered her head. “Jake,” she whispered, and remained silent.
“I don’t deserve you,” I said.
Vanni looked up, into my eyes, and smiled. “True enough,” she said. “But I deserve you.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sincere thanks to: Maya Mavjee and Kristin Cochrane at Doubleday Canada for supporting this project; Amy Black, my ever-patient and encouraging editor, for her assistance and for putting up with me; John Pearce, my friend and agent, for helping steer the book along; Stephanie Fysh, for a painstaking copy edit; and my children, Dylan, Megan and Brendan Bell, for helpful comments on the manuscript.
As always, a special thank-you to my chief inspiration, Ting-xing Ye, for her unwavering support, encouragement and love.
I am indebted to William Shakespeare, Edmond Rostand and the creators of Casablanca. Here’s looking at you, kids.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Bell’s young adult novels have been translated into nine languages and have won a number of awards, among them the Manitoba Readers’ Choice Award, the Mr. Christie’s Book Award, the Ruth Schwartz Award, and the Canadian Librarians’ Award. He lives in Orillia, Ontario, with writer Ting-xing Ye.
ALSO BY WILLIAM BELL
THE BLUE HELMET
Lee wants to be a Tarantula—a member of the most powerful gang in his neighbourhood. But when his initiation goes wrong and he is caught robbing an auto supply store, Lee’s father sends him to live with his aunt in New Toronto. Though he initially resists his Aunt Reena and the eccentric and unusual customers of Reena’s Unique Café, Lee gradually learns to open himself up to his new surroundings. When he strikes up an unlikely friendship, Lee is suddenly confronted by the ravages of violence, and is forced to face the consequences of his own aggression.
ALSO BY WILLIAM BELL
ALMA
Times have been tough since Alma’s father died and she and her
mother had to give up the family farm and move into town. With few friends, Alma loves to lose herself in stories—books she reads and re-reads, and tales she writes herself.
To help make ends meet, Alma takes a job transcribing the letters of Miss Lily, the eccentric and reclusive elderly woman who has just moved into the old house on Little Wharf Road.
Eventually, their mutual love of words creates a strong relationship, and Miss Lily encourages Alma’s spark for writing, introducing her to the art of calligraphy and lending her some of her favourite books. But why is Miss Lily so secretive about certain parts of her life? Alma is determined to find out—but will she be prepared for what she will discover? …
ALSO BY WILLIAM BELL
STONES
Garnet Havelock know what it’s like to be on the outside, not one of the crowd. Now, in his final year of high school, he’s just marking time, waiting to get out into the real world.
Then a mysterious girl transfers to his school and Garnet thinks he might have found the woman of his dreams—if only he could get her to talk to him.
At the same time, Garnet becomes caught up in a mystery centred in his community. As he and Raphaella draw closer to the truth, they uncover a horrifying chapter in the town’s history, and learn how deep-seated prejudices and persecution from the past can still reverberate in the present.
Copyright © 2009 William Bell
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
Doubleday Canada and colophon are registered trademarks
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Bell, William, 1945–
Only in the movies / William Bell.
eISBN: 978-0-307-37437-0
I. Title.
PS8553.E4568O55 2010 jC813′.54 C2009-904042-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada,
a division of Random House of Canada Limited
Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s website:
www.randomhouse.ca
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