Me Tarzan, You Jane

by Camelia Miron Skiba

  I give him the cold shoulder upon his return, not engaging in the conversation he tries to start. I know I’m pouting, but it’s better than telling him what I think about him—a self-centered, ignorant individual. It won’t do me any good repeating myself and starting another fight.

  My growling stomach can be heard over the radio. Talk about embarrassing and bad timing. We drive deeper and deeper into the city, for about twenty minutes. Buildings have this intricate architecture with statues around tall windows I’d love to see closer. People hurry in all directions on wide sidewalks, much wider than any I’ve seen back home in LA. Every other store is another café or bakery with stacked rows of pastry, and I find myself salivating just seeing them.

  “Where are we going?” I don’t make an effort to hide the annoyance in my voice.

  “Now you’re talking to me? You’re one big pain in the butt, you know that?” Lucas drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Pain in the butt? I’ve no control over my own schedule, where I live for the time being, deciding what to do, not to mention I’ve been left waiting until your highness graces me with your presence, and I’m the pain in the butt?” I don’t look his way but rather stare at the road ahead of us, a large boulevard with row after row of Christmas decorated buildings, lots of pedestrians and two directions of traffic.

  “Of course you are. I was supposed to work and instead I have to babysit you.”

  “Work? Really, you know how to work?” I snap back. “You call posing and flirting work? Wow. That’s a whole new meaning to the word ‘work’. Give me the damn address and I’ll grab a taxi. I’m not helpless, you know.”

  “Cabs don’t drive so far outside the city, smarty pants,” Lucas replies, his tone light. “Viv asked me to take care of you and I promised her I’d do it.”

  “And why did you promise? No one forced you to take on such a burden.”

  “Because I like picking on you.” Lucas parks, gets out of the Escalade, and comes around to my side. “Come,” he says, opening my door.

  As tempted as I am not to go with him, maybe make him wait as he made me, I get out. Hopefully there’s food wherever we go.

  Wind slices across my face and big flakes come down fast. My leather boots smack the slosh on the street as I try to keep up with Lucas’s stride. He walks ahead of me, collar pulled up and hands deep in his pockets. His ears are red and I wonder if once inside wherever we’re going he’ll lose them. That’s a goofy image in my head, Lucas without ears.

  I follow him down a narrow street toward a large boulevard. The wind pushes harder between the buildings and I see myself when passing by a window, hunched and leaning forward, head drawn between my shoulders. When we come around the corner entering a boulevard, a blue with white framed street sign tells me we are on Rue Lincoln. To my left is the imposing Arc de Triumph, to my right, far in the distance, the Obélisque.

  “This is Champs-Élysées!” I look up at Lucas, not for reassurance, but in excitement. Snowflakes prickle my face, and I blink fast to fight them out of my eyes.

  “Yes, it is. I hope you like macaroons. This is the famous Ladurée restaurant.” He holds a green with gold ornaments door open, and I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time, when women wore corseted petticoats and rode in carriages. It’s a salon-type room, with tall arcades, pistachio-green paneling, gold accents and naked cherubs.

  Although a body-to-body line of people prevents me from seeing the pastry counter, sweet aromas delight my senses to a point I feel nauseous with hunger. My blood sugar must’ve dropped below the earth’s center.

  There’s a quick exchange between Lucas and a maître d’, and to my surprise Lucas speaks French. No accent whatsoever or so it sounds to me. Low but not whispered, heavy with a punch of nasal tone, Lucas’s French sounds . . . sexy. Of course it does. How else? Based on how crowded this place is we stand no chance to find a table, but another surprise comes my way when we are shown down a hallway into a bar.

  Hidden lights illuminate the bar’s base. Bar stools and metal asymmetrical accents on the walls resemble fish scales and twigs; lavender-colored metal butterflies hang on overlapping scales, an odd combination of natural elements reminding me of Jules Verne’s eccentric stories. Jazz music soothes people’s conversations, some loud, some hushed, but somehow blended in volume.

  We sit at a cocktail table in a corner. Of course every woman in the room turns to see Lucas. I catch one of them even smiling openly at him. He inclines his head in response. An anorexic-looking brunette pouts her lips before her companion, a bulldog-faced man, joins her at the bar.

  Our waiter, a medium-height slender guy, takes Lucas’s order for Chardonnay and something else. I actually assume he orders wine because the only word I understood was Chardonnay.

  Luckily under the French version of each meal the menu is written in English as well. As much as I’m tempted to order everything on the menu, I decide on a three-course meal, which should feed the famished monster my stomach has turned into. Jerome, our waiter, returns with water and a plate of assorted bread and butter, the rolls still warm to the touch. Before devouring one, I open my mouth to order, but Lucas cuts me off and out of him pours a cascade of French. I understand zilch.

  What did I expect from him? Manners? In a fantasy world, maybe. His cronies would be appalled to know the real Lucas like I know him—a self-centered, narcissist raised in the mother of all barns.

  Lucas dismisses Jerome before I place my order, answering his cell at the same time. Again it’s a French exchange I don’t understand, but this is the least of my worries. I’m sitting in a fancy restaurant stuck with a guy I can’t stand, unable to order my own meal. How fair is that?

  While Lucas talks on his cell phone, I munch on bread and butter. The bread melts in my mouth, crispy golden crust on the outside, sweet and flakey in the inside. And the butter? The best I’ve ever had with its creamy, lush taste. There are only two rolls left, but proper manners stop me from eating them. Wondering if Jerome will bring more bread, I slowly eat half of a poppy seed roll, and browse on my phone for nearby hotels.

  “Slow down,” Lucas places his cell on the table. “I ordered a ton of food.”

  “If I recall I haven’t ordered anything, thanks to you.”

  Lucas tilts his head, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He says nothing, only stares at me, one brow cocked. Self–conscious, I wonder if poppy seeds stick between my teeth. Now I can’t even talk. I swirl a sip of water while covering my mouth behind a white, crisp linen napkin with Ladurée embroidered on it.

  “You know . . .” Lucas leans toward me and whispers, “the noises you make when you eat are extremely . . . sexy. Can’t help but wonder how you sound when crushed beneath a man.” He winks and tips his head backward, laughing that deep, rich laugh of his. I’d like nothing more than to shove it back down his throat.

  “You know . . .” I copy his low tone, “the words coming out of your mouth are extremely . . . disrespectful. Can’t help but pray not to hear your voice at all.” It’s my turn to laugh, but it’s a forced laugh.

  “A lot of women would beg to hear my voice.”

  Instead of answering, I roll my eyes, holding the phone in front of my face, not too high, not too low, just positioned for him to see me doing it.

  “Other women would kill to have dinner with me.”

  That statement is not even worth an eye-rolling. I continue searching hotels and find hundreds nearby. I come upon Cristal, a chic hotel which, based on the address, should be only two blocks behind Champs-Élysées toward the Obélisque. Lots of photos and stellar reviews make this my first pick.

  “Even more women would die to have my attention.”

  I pretend to gag myself not looking at Lucas, only at my phone. My next pick is hotel Napoleon—

  “I hate it when you ignore me.” Lucas snatches my phone before I click on the first photo of the new hotel. “What’s this? Looking for a hotel?”

/>   “I thought we ended this conversation hours ago.” I reach for my phone, but Lucas holds it too far away. “Please give me my phone back.”

  His jaw twitches. “You’re stubborn. The most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

  “You tend to repeat yourself a lot.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. Viv gave clear instructions where you and Ella will stay while here. No one argues with Viv.” Irritation in his voice, Lucas puts my phone inside his jacket.

  He lifts his wine and takes a long sip. I can see his mouth over the rim, red, full and . . . mean. And sexy. No, just mean, plain mean. Why would I think about his sexy mouth when all I want is to scratch his eyeballs out?

  Jerome brings a tray with hors d’œuvre, each one more sophisticated than the last, a rainbow of colors and aromas from smoked salmon to stuffed mushrooms, scallops and foie gras and God knows what other things I cannot identify.

  Lucas cuts each appetizer and wants to feed me like a baby while naming the food, words I won’t even try to pronounce. What’s up with this man and feeding me? Does he do this with all women? Argh! Why do I care? I’m reluctant and push the fork away, but he holds it in front of my mouth.

  “I can eat alone.” I eye his fork, lifting my own.

  “Here comes the airplane, watch out, it comes closer and closer.” Lucas pretends to fly the fork through the air, making loops above the table, all the while the noise coming out of his mouth imitates an engine.

  Embarrassed, I glance around the bar and sure enough, the couple to our left and two guys at the bar watch us. On the other side of the bar, three business-dressed women stare openly, as well. Smirking, Lucas wiggles his brows.

  “Stop it. People are looking at us,” I whisper.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because. We are in a restaurant, and I’m not a baby to be fed.”

  “Come on, Jane. Have fun with it.”

  I take a deep breath and glance around the room. People still stare. “Only a bite.”

  “Atta girl.”

  Before this turns into a full-blown circus, I give in. “I hate you.”

  “Likewise.”

  The piece of scallop with pear dipped in a foamy sauce waltzes over every taste bud in my mouth. Smoked salmon and black truffle follow, and each time I open my mouth for another bite, I discover something better than the last. My mouth is on a rollercoaster of flavors, and I can’t decide which is my favorite.

  “Try their house wine. It’s outstanding.” Lucas hands me a glass.

  I push his hand away. “Thanks, but I don’t drink during the day.”

  Lucas counts on his fingers, “You don’t take photos, you don’t live with a man, you don’t swim at midnight, you don’t drink during the day. Geez, Jane, loosen up, girl. Life passes by, and you’ve no idea what you’re missing out on.”

  “And you figured that one how? By mocking me? And thank you for your concerns, but I do enjoy my life very much. Now, can I please have my phone back? I want to check on Ella.”

  “This is another example of how tight you are. You just checked on her not even twenty minutes ago. She’s fine. She’s with a babysitter, someone that has experience with children.”

  I finish the last canapé and tap at the corners of my mouth. “Well, I don’t expect you to understand. You’re not a parent. That’s what parents do, check on their children.”

  “I might not be a parent, but I’ve more common sense than you. What are you going to do when Ella is on a date? Call every ten minutes to check on her? She needs to know she’s okay on her own. You’re overbearing.”

  More food is brought to our table, several dishes placed on pistachio-green plates with a golden rim. It’s fancy and delicious, but my appetite fails me because of the constant bickering. Don’t understand why Lucas puts me on the spot as if he tries to find fault with everything I do. Am I really that bad? Am I really suffocating my daughter?

  “When you lose someone, you tend to be over-protective.” My knife cuts through the éclair crust and I fill my fork with mango and shrimp, then dump it back on the plate. “It’s a defense mechanism that clicks in once all you’ve known is gone. You worry a lot. You control everything. You freak out at every fall and every cry. I might come across as overbearing, but you can’t understand it.

  “You and I are different people living in completely parallel worlds. You’re so used to your lifestyle, always the center of attention, having everything without asking for it. You don’t even have to reach and it’s handed to you. I see where your arrogance comes from, but don’t understand your insolence. Footloose and fancy-free. Careless, always adored. It must be exhausting.”

  I expect Lucas to mock me again and I dread glancing up at him, but I do it anyway. This is a brand new face of Lucas, a mixture of sadness and anger, and, if the lights were brighter, I’d take the sheen in his eyes as fire. It takes me completely by surprise, and I regret saying what I did. Who am I to judge?

  Tight jaw, Lucas twists the glass stem between his fingers. It’s a long and charged silence, and I expect him to come at me with more insults. It seems to be the only way we know how to communicate, as if some twisted power threw us together into the same boxing ring, both of us living for the next jab, calculating how to K.O. each other. How did we get here? And most importantly, why?

  Resting both elbows on the table and staring out the window, Lucas speaks in a low voice. “I care for a mother who’s losing her mind. When I visit her she tells everyone I’m some kind of a monster and the nurses have to medicate her to calm her down. Then she turns into a veggie. I care for a brother who hides behind alcohol and drugs instead of facing his own mistakes and taking responsibility for them. Contrary to what you think, nothing was handed to me. I’ve worked hard to be where I am today. I take good care of myself.

  “Hard to do when you’re surrounded by temptations the modeling world oozes with. But it brought me satisfaction and a way to secure my future. I own a modeling agency and fifty percent of a magazine. I work eighteen, sometimes twenty hours a day. All you and everyone else see is this outer shell. No one cares about who I am inside, what lies behind the mask. I’m not ever asked what I want or how I feel, if I like it. I’m not adored as you say it. I’m used. That is exhausting.”

  Dear God. This is an unexpected confession. I witness a glimpse at a completely different person. Lucas Oliver, the boastful model, has a soul, feels and thinks? Did I just hear pain behind his words? And how from a discussion making no sense did we end up so close and personal?

  I’m at a loss for both words and appetite. I don’t know what to say next. I watch Lucas pay for the food. He stands and I follow suit. He helps me put my coat on, then he grabs his and we exit the restaurant, still not saying one word to each other. He swings his jacket on, zips it and walks, looking not my way, but rather at his shoes.

  We reach the car and still no words have been spoken. The snow falls forcefully and Lucas turns the wipers on cruising through the city. The wind and snow intensify once we’re on the freeway and, as heavy as the Escalade is, I fear we might roll off the road.

  As soon as we get home, Ella jumps in my arms, then asks Lucas to read her a story. Her face is red and her hair damp from the bath Zoé tells me she gave her. I hear it was a long bath, until her skin creased, but not her dolls’ because, of course, plastic doesn’t wrinkle.

  Zoé leaves soon, although I’m worried about her driving to wherever she lives, but she assures me it’s only a short distance to Madame V’s house. Didn’t know she lives just up the hill.

  Ella falls asleep before Lucas finishes the story. He carries her to her room. I follow and remove all the pillows except one and pull the blankets back. He sets her down, covers her and, without as much as glancing my way, he walks out.

  Leaving the lamp on I open the door between the bathroom and my room and sit on my bed. I’m tired although I haven’t done much today. It seems a wasted day, doing very little, fighting with
Lucas and complaining.

  Thirst forces me out of my room. A headache threatens to shatter my brain. When I get closer to Lucas’s room I see him exiting with luggage. He doesn’t see me. Panic turns my stomach into a knot but I’ve no idea why.

  I rush to grab his arm then, as if burned, I let go. “What are you doing?”

  Anger edges his eyes and voice. “Leaving.”

  He drops the luggage by the front door. I follow him once more to his room where he crams more stuff in a bag.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He snorts. “You said you want me gone.”

  “No. What I said is I need a hotel. You don’t have to leave on my account. It would’ve been easier if you stayed with Madame V, but then again that’s none of my business.”

  “Why would I stay with her? You said this before and I don’t understand it.”

  I shuffle on my feet. I tread unknown waters here, speaking of things between the two of them, theirs and theirs only, regardless of how I feel about their odd relationship.

  “Well, you guys are a . . . couple, are you not? You said today that couples stay together, not that it’s my business and stuff, but I find it weird you . . . being her . . . partner or boyfriend or whatever you two are, and not spending more time together.”

  Lucas’s brows crinkle. “Why on earth do you think we are a couple?”

  “Well . . .” I clear my throat. “You . . .” Embarrassment flames my face. “You spend nights together, you came to France with her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Not that it’s my business and stuff, but at the photo shoot back in LA, Madame V said you didn’t have to get out of bed for her, to come for the photos.”

  “You said three times it’s not your business, and yet you point out things that are not your business. Make up your mind.” The playful hint is back in Lucas’s voice and, as crazy as it sounds, I feel better now. This is the man I know how to handle, blocking his mockery.

  “Indeed, it’s not my business. But from your behavior I thought you’re a couple. You hug and hold hands and kiss. Like couples do.”