Champagne Kisses

by Amanda Brunker

  On first viewing I screamed.

  On the second I felt nauseous.

  On the third I texted back, ‘You don’t get to come till I say so!’

  It took him all of twenty seconds to send back, ‘SHOW ME THE MONEY @ THE HARTLEY HOTEL PENTHOUSE … when can u get here?’

  I ran next door to show Maddie, but she was napping, so in a moment of madness I texted back, ‘Order me some bubbly and wait and see …’ I then jumped in the shower, almost killing myself on a loose tray mat, and scrubbed myself feverishly. Several minor razor cuts later, I was sitting in front of my full-length mirror dripping all over Parker’s carpet as I tried to trowel on my night-time-look make-up.

  It was a messy process as I was steaming up the joint, what with the shower and the naughty thoughts I was having.

  Thankfully my liquid eyeliner went on straight the first time, which I took as a really good omen. So I buffed off my skin with half of my reserve bottle of Flamingo Fancy body glow and slid into an all-black balcony bra, thong and suspender set. Although it was a Marks & Spencer buy, I felt I looked as sexy as if I was wearing some kinky Agent Provocateur number.

  Without a second to waste I speedily fastened up my opaque black stockings, but took care to make sure that their sexy 1940s red seam up the back was zigzag free.

  To finish the look I stepped into vintage black Dior peep-toe heels and belted up my Carrie Bradshaw mac. I was subtly filthy and felt erotically charged. I couldn’t wait to flash Michael the complete show. The Valentine in full glory … Let’s hope he still found me hot stuff or I was about to make a complete tit out of myself.

  As I charged out of the apartment I prayed no one else would be at the Hartley. Imagine having to sit sweltering in my mac as I swapped small talk with some of his mates or colleagues!

  But the not knowing made this a sort of fantasy role-play – ‘Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be Madonna in Body of Evidence’ – only instead of standing on a car bonnet and lifting my coat, I’d lie on the piano all Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys and let Michael devour me like the tart that I wanted to be.

  Thankfully I had seen the penthouse once before after attending a Desperate Housewives finale screening there years back, so I knew what to expect from the décor at least.

  I just had to convince myself not to be overly disappointed if he hadn’t covered his bed in rose petals, stacked several bottles of pink champagne on ice beside the Jacuzzi and bought an engagement ring the size of something Liz Taylor would wear.

  I’d hate to build up my expectations.

  But surely that wasn’t too much to expect from our reunion date?

  He screamed, ‘Surprise!’ as he opened the door. What he should have said was, ‘Girlfriend, I’m gonna wake up the shallow bitch in you.’

  When I say he had a spot the size of Wales on the side of his right cheek, it’s not a word of a lie. Its ugly presence was partially bearable when he turned slightly away from me as he led me down a long hallway, but it really belonged in a university laboratory.

  What the fuck?

  Not only was it the sort of pimple that only a rugby scrum could squeeze, its glow-in-the dark yellow hue was similar to the radioactive substances aid worker Adi Roche would campaign to have villages evacuated from.

  While I was determined to focus on the rest of his face and body … such a cute ass … and what muscular hands … I couldn’t help but stare at the alien pod on his face.

  I tried to fight the gawking, but as people who own Barry Manilow noses and Lolo Ferrari bosoms will know, it’s impossible for others not to gape.

  ‘It’s a spider bite,’ he said after becoming aware of my Kryptonite.

  ‘Did you get to bite him back?’ I teased, hoping to sound breezy.

  ‘I’m still picking him out of my boot,’ laughed Michael as he stood at the end of the hall. And just as I caught up with him, he exposed bad news number two as he swung open a door and said, ‘Miss Eva. Say hi to the gang.’

  He might as well have told me he was holding a Ku Klux Klan meeting, for all the interest I had in getting acquainted.

  As I stuck my head through the door my fake smile wavered at the sight of about twenty people lounging around my seedy lust den.

  It was a massive loft-style suite and it was saturated with grumpy arty types, smoking, eating and listening to some young hairy guy murder a guitar medley. Michael, as per usual, had more friends than I was comfortable with. Through gritted teeth I managed, ‘Nice to meet you all’, sounding ridiculously American, but judging by my reception they were as excited to see me as I was them.

  ‘Most of them will be too stoned to remember your name,’ explained Michael as he manoeuvred me round some badly stacked boxes, suitcases and camera equipment. ‘So I’ll pass on the intros. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Eh, please …’

  Although I just wanted to run a mile from the lot of them – as this was not the anecdote I wanted to recall for Parker and Maddie – I thought I’d at least accept a drink to calm my nerves, and then do my Houdini. With lethargic bodies strewn all about the place, I suggested I wait outside on the back balcony while Michael fetched me a tasty beverage.

  Thankfully it was mild for this time of year, so I settled myself on a large wooden chair beside a grand table, which I’m sure had hosted many a supermodel dinner party, and sulked.

  The balcony had a great view of the city, and I watched the cars and shoppers go by. For a woman with such a privileged view I felt very grouchy; even more so when a passing seagull nearly shat on my shoe.

  As I changed seats Michael reappeared with two bottles of Heineken. It was not what I had envisaged. But a quick beer was exactly what I needed to give me a lift. He pulled another heavy seat beside me, kissed me on the head like a child and asked, ‘Well, did you miss me?’

  I thought about lying and saying no. I thought about smacking him across the face and calling him a bastard, but thought better of it when I visualized his spot. Instead I counted to ten, held my composure, and calmly said, ‘You broke my heart just a little. It turned out you were the heart-breaker.’

  Amazingly he looked surprised, and said ‘Ohhhh,’ before filling his mouth with his bottle.

  ‘Yes, ohhhh,’ I retorted, confident that the truth was the way to go.

  ‘You promised me the sun, moon and stars and then the second I walked out of Primrose Hill you seemed to forget all about me. Why would you do that?’ I tried to make it sound like the hurt was all in the past, but a lump somehow leaped into my throat and caught me off guard.

  And then just to spite myself, I showed total female vulnerability – tears.

  What a total disaster. OK, so they weren’t Sinead O’Connor, ‘Nothing Compares To You’ tears. They were just crafty make-a-bloke-feel-bad tears. But they weren’t planned, and I was finding it hard to fight them.

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry, Eva,’ Michael said. He took my beer out of my hand and placed it with his on the ground – just like a re-enactment of the first night we met – and then cuddled me close.

  He still had that strong smell of Davidoff. It was divine. If it hadn’t been for the spot and my embarrassing dumped lover act I would have hopped him right there and given the tourists something to write home about.

  But this fantasy wasn’t going according to plan.

  ‘I just thought it might have been easier on you if I broke contact,’ he said, lifting my face so we could lock eyes. ‘As you mad Irish would say, I’m a bit of a bollix, I just couldn’t help myself with you. You were so damn fine. And may I say you look extremely hot this evening.’

  ‘You may,’ I sniffed, melting once again with his dreamy eyes. ‘Now give me my beer back. I’m far too sober for this malarkey.’

  ‘Ma-larkey?’ he questioned.

  ‘Yes, malarkey,’ I replied, unsure how to explain the word.

  ‘All-righty then.’ He looked at me blankly for a second before breaking out in a giggle.

&
nbsp; ‘What’s so funny?’ I snapped, worried that he was laughing at me for not being cool.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve been dying to ask one thing since you’ve arrived.’

  ‘What’s that, dare I ask?’

  ‘Well … I was just wondering what you might, or might not, be wearing under that mac coat of yours.’

  ‘Still got that dirty mind of yours?’ I smirked, in the knowledge that he still found me attractive.

  ‘Damn sure,’ he said, as his eyebrows danced. ‘And if I was to make a bet I’d say you’ve got a treat for me under there.’

  I was just about to lift up my coat and give him a sneaky peek when some muso type popped his head around the corner. He wore ridiculous oversized white-rimmed shades, purple skinny jeans and two off-white layered Ts, both of which were too short to cover his hairy bellybutton.

  ‘Hey bucket carrier – you’re up,’ he said, signalling to Michael to get his ass back inside.

  He shouted back, ‘Two minutes!’ almost bursting my eardrum, and then turned back to me with puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘It’s fine, just go,’ I said, sounding incredibly pissed off, which I was.

  ‘It’s just we’ve a big shoot on here tonight, so I better get the crew together and make this thing happen. Why don’t you head off for a bit and I’ll call you when we’re done.’

  ‘Can I not stay and watch you in action? Maybe I could help.’

  ‘Sorry, pumpkin, I don’t like any distractions while I work. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up later, I promise. Now you better go.’

  And with that, he took my hand and started to lead me back through the throng of now busy bodies and then along the hall towards the lift.

  As he kissed me goodbye at the door I felt myself slipping into a sulk again.

  What a big baby I was.

  ‘You can show me what’s underneath that coat then,’ he smirked, ‘and—’ We were rudely interrupted by the same guy again.

  ‘Listen, fella,’ he hollered, ‘hurry the fuck up, there’s shit here that won’t move itself!’

  For the first time I saw a different side to Michael, a flustered one. Without another word, he kissed me again and pushed me out the door, slamming it behind me.

  I stood just outside the door for a couple of minutes trying to figure out what to do.

  I was a single girl who was wearing nothing more than knickers and a coat, and had stale beer breath. Where could I possibly go?

  Fuck it, I thought, calling the lift. This was the sexy city of Dublin. The possibilities were endless for a woman like me.

  I didn’t need to hang around here like a pathetic groupie. I was just going to step out into the night and see where the streets would take me.

  The cute barman handed me a glass of champagne and said, ‘Compliments of the two gentlemen in the corner. They said don’t be lonely.’

  I had only made it as far as Rounder’s Bar downstairs in the Hartley. But it was as good a place as any to entertain myself.

  As I thanked the barman I stretched on my stool to see where he was pointing, and found two attractive guys raising their glasses to me. Politely I toasted them back with their champagne, which somehow gave them the green light to get up out of their seats and walk towards me.

  With no time to think, I could only fix my hair and look approachable.

  ‘Thank you for my drink,’ I gushed as the duo arrived over.

  ‘You’re more than welcome,’ said the better-looking of the two, and then introduced himself. ‘I’m Bill, and this is Mark.’

  Since they had Dublin accents and didn’t have the appearance of escaped mental patients, I kept smiling. After all, they were the best offer – well, only offer – of company I had had so far.

  A couple beside me got up to leave. Bill looked at their vacated seats and asked, ‘Would you mind if we joined you?’ The word ‘Sure’ had barely left my mouth when my new mate Mark came out with a cheesy line that sort of annoyed me.

  ‘Of course she’d like us to join her. She’s too beautiful to be drinking alone.’

  But I realized that I was a bit tetchy from my disappointment with Michael, so I laughed it off and said, ‘Bet you say that to all the girls,’ meaning every word of it.

  An hour and two glasses of champagne later Bill and Mark had told me that they were part-time models and in the middle of recording an album. Apparently they had spent the afternoon putting down a ‘really funky tune’ in Brian McFadden’s old studio and were certain that it would get picked up soon. ‘But we don’t need that fucker Louis Walsh,’ explained Mark. ‘That asshole doesn’t know what he’s talking about half the time.’

  Tiring of their endless wannabe banter I kept checking my phone, but no calls or texts were beeping through. While it had been fantastic to see Michael, even after all this time, I couldn’t get it out of my head the way that scrawny guy had barked at him.

  It seemed like a deep lack of respect for the photographer, especially one who had been flown over from New York to do the shoot.

  Was Michael really the guy he said he was?

  I was quickly dragged back out of my daydream when the two lads started to hum melodies.

  I was mortified for them!

  Although I wasn’t usually made to feel uncomfortable by people being loud, other drinkers had started to stare, and these guys had really started to make me fidgety. In between their ‘hummmms’ and ‘ah-haaaas’ and their predictions of the death of Westlife, I knew I had to plan an exit.

  But it was only when I had stepped up and made the excuse that I needed to use the toilet that the guys showed their true colours.

  ‘Sorry, before you go,’ Bill giggled, ‘well, we were actually hoping you’d settle a bet for us.’

  Somehow I sensed something bad, so I just flattened my fringe on my face and sternly said, ‘Fair enough. What’ya wanna know?’

  Instantly the two boys broke into fits of laughter, almost spilling their pints, before Mark piped up, ‘What are you wearing under your coat? Bill reckons you’re on the game, so you’d have nothing on underneath.’

  I was speechless.

  Did they just call me a prostitute?

  As I stood and scowled at them, the two boys high-fived each other, repeatedly telling themselves, ‘You the man’ – ‘No, you the man!’

  I walked out of the bar.

  There was no point in telling them off. It was standard behaviour for Dublin blokes, but how could they think that it was acceptable?

  It was occasions like this that left me totally disillusioned by men.

  There just had to be decent men out there waiting to adore or at least be nice to me, didn’t there?

  I walked about for twenty minutes to clear my head before finally making for the cobbled streets of Temple Bar where I settled in Tanta Zoe’s for some grub. Having devoured some Cajun chicken popcorn and a bottle of Wolf Blass, I finally got the call I’d been waiting for.

  ‘How’s my Oirish queen?’ His New York tone made my heart skip a beat.

  ‘Fairly drunk,’ I replied, slurring.

  ‘Do I need to send out a search party for you? Or can you get back to the Hartley?’

  ‘Nope, I’m just five minutes away in a taxi. Are ya ready for me?’

  ‘I think I’ll need to sink a few beers to prepare myself for the Eva invasion. But get your tasty ass back up here, beautiful. I’ll be waiting. Oh, and I’ve a surprise for you.’

  Ah fuck. I was dreading another surprise. Knowing my luck, he’d probably have a spot on his willy too!

  ‘Eva, you’ve met Lucy, I believe.’

  A broad grin spread across his face as he introduced me to his drinking partner.

  Although the suite was still stuffed with luggage and equipment, all previous bodies had left. Lucy, my Lucy, had replaced the throng. And taken up a place at the bar with Michael.

  ‘I asked her to join us for a drink. I hope you don’t mind?’

  I was choked. Did I mind?
I was preparing myself for a big romantic reunion, and all of a sudden I walk in on a cosy drinks party.

  I felt such a fool. This was not how I had imagined things working out.

  I reached for the appropriate words as we politely kissed each other on both cheeks. ‘Of course. Good to see you. So, eh, how do you two know each other?’

  Before Michael had a chance to speak, Lucy piped up, ‘We met last night, actually, at the Haven.’

  ‘Really?’ Automatically I flipped into jealous girlfriend mode.

  Realizing that might get my back up, Michael quickly shoved a beer in my hand and said, ‘I’m sorry, we got in late. I was going to call you, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But nothing. I should have called you straight away. Listen, I’m a bollix. Now let’s just enjoy tonight. Lucy here tells me you’re a very talented dancer.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘And a kisser,’ laughed Lucy as she banged her teeth on her glass of white wine.

  ‘Lucy …’

  ‘Ah relax, Eva. He knows about us. I know about you two.’

  ‘And now we all know about each other. Cheers!’ Michael raised his beer and encouraged us to do the same with our drinks.

  Feeling too fuzzy to argue with them I pulled up a stool beside Lucy and tried to let the shock of seeing her and my anger over the fact that Michael hadn’t called me the second he had arrived in Dublin Airport float over my head.

  So I tried to ‘Chillax’ as Michael suggested and made an effort to enjoy the mutual flirting.

  After a time we moved from the bar to the lounge to play CDs – and that’s when Lucy kissed me. Like everything with this pair it came totally out of the blue. While Michael was sitting on the floor shifting through discs beside the CD player, Lucy found her moment and planted her lips on mine.

  I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but I didn’t fight it.

  And then, like the time before, I enjoyed her touch. So I went for it and kissed her back with months of pent-up emotion inside me. I had almost been living like a saint since the summer, in between looking after Maddie and the freelance work I had picked up with some new contacts.