by Alison Tyler
Back up, I admonished myself. Don’t kiss him yet. Smell him, first.
He was wearing a musky scent, something familiar made of spices combined with notes of sandalwood and, when he’d bent to kiss me, I had felt his cheek brush against mine. His skin was smooth, cool. His lips were warmer, soft against my mouth …
Back up, I told myself again. Slowly, slowly. Make it last.
I recalled every detail that Nora had shared, and in my head I now added my own figure into the scene, as if I truly were watching, a witness from outside, another partier in the room, one who had nothing to lose. There I was, in a red silk dress that was more than slightly provocative compared to my normal attire. I had my hair swept up into a French twist, and this gave me a look of simple elegance compared with my normal everyday ponytail. I had dressed with Nora – the dress was, in fact, one of Nora’s. I had even allowed Nora to do my make-up for me for once, although I’d refused to let her dye my hair for the occasion. I didn’t listen when she said red and green streaks would look festive, or that I should consider bleaching my light-brown hair birch white for a snowy effect, and I even brushed her away when she asked to put silver glitter in my fringe.
‘Killjoy,’ she’d said with a frown.
‘You can look like Santa’s naughty helper if you want,’ I told her. ‘But this is a business event for me. I can’t show up with different-coloured hair. And sparkles would make me look like a teenager.’
Nora shot me a hurt look. She has no plans to ever outgrow sparkles.
‘Then wear the red dress,’ she finally countered. I’d been planning on black. Black as usual. Black as always. ‘You’re going to a party, Eleanor, not a funeral.’ She’d won out on this fight. But I didn’t own any dresses that weren’t black. I stand by my desire to let the art around me shine. I have no need to compete with it. But Nora had come through with a dress that was tasteful for her and only mildly trashy to me.
In the twinkling lights of the museum’s main lobby – and in the twinkling lights of my own memory – I looked as fanciful, as attractive, as the women depicted in the tapestries on the walls of the lobby. The queens and princesses and rich ladies dressed for parties held centuries before, glittering with jewels, spilling over with creamy white cleavage, their eyes sparkling as they gazed down upon us.
Wearing heels much higher than normal, I had worked on simply standing up and walking without trotting. ‘Heel, toe,’ I’d whispered to myself, ‘heel, toe.’ Until Anthony, who had also apparently been watching me, grabbed my elbow and whispered, ‘Look up.’ A strand of mistletoe dangled directly above our heads.
‘You know what that means,’ he’d murmured.
‘I know entirely too well,’ I’d said, because I had been the one to write the invitation to the party, this office party mixed with an ARTSI fund-raiser. For weeks, I had lost myself in the research, learning about the history behind the tradition of kissing under mistletoe. I had started to tell Anthony, despite Nora’s frantic headshaking, saying, ‘Mistletoe is the common name for both the Loranthaceae and the Viscaceae families of chiefly –’ only to be silenced by his lips on mine.
Warm lips.
‘I read the brochure,’ Anthony said when we parted. ‘I wasn’t interested in the history of the plant, only in what it would be like to kiss you, what it would be like to …’
I yearned to know what he was going to say next – I could hear the words in my head: What it would be like to fuck you. To spank you. To – But then, like some childish Cinderella, I had thought of Byron. Had I always been such a good girl? That was easy to answer: yes. I gave in to my fantasies, gave in to them shamefully, knowing that fantasies are free. Aside from that one Christmas kiss, I never went any further than that.
Now I realised Byron had probably been in the arms of the sultry bombshell Gwen. My guilty complex had made me push Anthony away. Nora, sulking at what she considered my obscenely moral behaviour, had joined me beneath the doorway, and some of my more immature co-workers hooted and howled, showing their champagne. I suppose they were expecting, or hoping, that we might also kiss each other, that they might actually get to see two women kissing. People can be so incredibly juvenile, even academics, once the champagne has been flowing for several hours. Of course, if we’d been at one of Nora’s clubs, rather than at ARTSI, a kiss would have been the mildest thing that they’d seen.
Nora had dragged me into the ladies’ room and pulled all of the details out of me. Thinking back, I wondered exactly what else Anthony had wanted to say.
My therapist – ex-therapist since I hadn’t gone in over a year now – would explain that I was transferring. That Anthony was an instant rebound relationship being used to diffuse my anger towards Byron. But when I paused – a trick that this same therapist had explained: pause in your thoughts to see where your emotions are truly coming from – I didn’t feel angry at Byron. I felt nothing at the thought of Byron, everything at the thought of Anthony. My therapist had liked to talk about co-dependency, about what I did for Byron and what he didn’t do for me. ‘It’s not an even relationship,’ the woman had said once. I’d disagreed, insisting that although we were different, we were good together. Maybe my therapist had been right.
Now, not having a therapist to discuss the situation with, I called Nora for advice. Nora is always more fun to talk to, anyway, plus she doesn’t charge $175 an hour.
‘Are you up?’ I asked.
She made some soft noise in response. Not a yes, but not a no, either. The mere fact that she’d answered the phone let me know that she was at least willing to listen to a conversation, even if she weren’t all the way ready to join in.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Not really.’
‘What does that mean?’ This was Nora speak for the fact that she had male company.
‘But don’t worry.’ I heard the sound of a door closing. She was moving down the hallway. ‘Dean stopped by again.’
‘Twice in one week? For you that’s practically a relationship.’
‘This is why you woke me up? To give me a play by play of who I’m fucking? Should I tell you how many orgasms he gave me? Or let you know whether he’s better or worse in bed than Travis?’
‘No,’ I said, speaking fast, in case she got truly upset by my minor wisecrack and hung up on me. ‘I’m going out with Anthony tonight.’
‘Anthony,’ she repeated, and I could tell that she was smiling. I could hear the familiar sounds of Nora making coffee in the background. ‘That was quick, wasn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’ I felt my defences rise. Nora claims that I am a serial monogamist. Since our summer abroad together, I have rarely been unpartnered. If my relationships haven’t exactly overlapped, as Byron and Gwen’s did, they have definitely come close.
‘He’s already asked you out on a date? A date-date?’ She emphasised the first “date.” ’
‘It’s not a date,’ I insisted, as if wanting to convince her as much as myself. ‘As a favour, he’s translating the pages I found in the pot. I’m repaying him with dinner.’ Even to me, that didn’t sound entirely plausible. Why would I have to take him to dinner in order for him to do this for me? Shouldn’t co-workers be able to ask one another for a hand without having to reward them?
‘Who’s idea was that?’
I hesitated. ‘Mine.’
Nora snorted again. She sounded like a displeased filly. ‘I told you what you need,’ she said.
‘You told me Anthony was going to be my next man.’
‘Yeah, after you fuck some sense into your head by doing one of my bartenders, and a drummer or two, and maybe one of the DJs, and Dean when you feel like it. He said you were a doll.’
‘Nora, I’m not the type to behave like that. And you know it.’
She didn’t want to hear this. ‘I saw you last night, Eli.’
‘I was out of my head last night,’ I countered.
‘You can’t go out tonight anyway,’ s
he declared.
‘And why is that? Have you taken over my social schedule?’
‘I would if you let me.’
‘Why can’t I go out with Anthony tonight?’
‘Does You Can Leave Your Hat On have any meaning to you?’
That stopped me in my thoughts. ‘Oh, God,’ I said softly. ‘Your show.’
‘That’s right, my show.’
I made a face, but Nora couldn’t see me. The concept for her reality show had been in motion for several months, and try-outs were tonight. Nora had been blogging the hell out of it. Called You Can Leave Your Hat On, the network was going to be filming at the club. Twelve bartender hopefuls would start out together and each week one would be rejected and ejected. Nora had worked hard to think of the way the person would be cut. She knew about The Bachelor and the striking red roses. She knew Heidi Klum’s ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ at the end of each episode of Project Runway, when she said goodbye to one of the designer hopefuls. Nora had decided that she would take the losing person’s hat off to let them know they’d been cut.
‘But that means they have to wear hats, right?’
‘Pink fedoras, of course.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Dead serious. And you have to be there tonight. With me. To help. That’s what I meant by saying you could have a bartender. I’m sure I’m going to be flooded with eligible men – and women, too – who would do anything to stay in the running.’
‘Nora,’ I said softly, repeating my words from before, ‘you know I’m not like that.’
‘I know.’ She sighed as if once again disappointed by my morals, and I could hear her sipping her coffee. ‘Anyway, back to Anthony. Yes, I think he’s perfect for you. I just thought you might actually take the time to get on your feet again, you know, move your belongings out of Byron’s apartment before shacking up with a brand-new beau.’
‘But Serina told me to do it. She said that Anthony works better with incentive.’
‘And you’re the carrot on the end of the stick?’ Nora sucked in her breath. ‘It definitely sounds like a date.’
‘It’s not,’ I said. Maybe if I said the statement enough times, I’d believe the words. ‘And the place wasn’t Byron’s apartment. Both of our names are on the lease. It’s ours together.’
‘You think that makes things better?’
‘No. More confusing than ever.’
‘What are you wearing?’ Nora asked, switching topics so fast that I felt thrown off balance.
‘What?’
‘It’s not a difficult question, Eli. What are you wearing?’
‘You know,’ I said.
I realised that Nora hadn’t seen me leave in the morning, but she had seen for herself that I’d only brought one suitcase to her home when I’d left Byron, knew that it undoubtedly wouldn’t contain more than a few of my normal, well-made, slightly boring suits. Since college, I’ve expanded my wardrobe slightly, choosing more expensive outfits than I wore as a student. But my tastes have ultimately remained the same. I stand by my desire not to compete with the canvases I write about. My favourite designer is Calvin Klein for his elegant sophistication.
Nora, on the other hand, has changed massively since college. That’s not to say she isn’t as flamboyant as ever, because she is. But she can buy the top designer looks now, doesn’t need to shop at thrift stores. She once bought two pairs of $500 shoes that were exactly the same except that one was fuchsia and the other was cobalt. She wore the right from one set and the left from another – just as I’d worn two mismatched shoes the night before. But I’d dressed that way in my haste to leave Byron. Nora chose two different coloured shoes on purpose.
‘What are you wearing?’ Nora asked again.
‘One of my suits,’ I confessed. ‘And I’m not going back to change before dinner. We’re leaving form here. Together.’
‘How’s your hair?’ she asked next.
‘In a ponytail down my back, like it usually is at work.’
Nora and I are true opposites. If I could, I’d dress exactly the same every day, and I know just what I’d wear, too. A pair of chic black slacks, my favourite patent-leather black penny loafers, a black T-shirt, black cashmere cardigan and my hair in a ponytail. In fact, I do dress like this everyday. Or a variation of it. I think it’s unique that I have euros in the slots of my shoes rather than actual pennies, but that’s about as edgy as I get.
Black helps me fade into the background. But black also means that I don’t have to think – black blends with black.
‘Do you have time to get your hair done?’
‘Don’t you think he’d find that odd? He’s already seen me today. He knows how I looked when I arrived at work.’ I raised my eyebrows, staring at my reflection in one of the framed pieces of artwork on the opposite wall. ‘Wouldn’t he find it strange if at five o’clock I suddenly looked totally different?’ But, of course, as soon as Nora suggested the idea, I found myself considering it. How would I look with my hair in loose curls framing my face or up in pretty plaited braids? What might Anthony find sexy? I tried to remember the various gossip I’d heard about him over the years. I knew that he’s been with some of the artists whose work has appeared in the avant-garde galleries. Did that mean he would rather be with someone like Nora?
‘It would be a surprise,’ Nora said, as if that might be a good thing, ‘but forget that. You’d never get into a good salon this late in the day. Let’s move onto bigger issues.’ Her voice took on a crafty tone. ‘I don’t recommend that you sleep with him tonight. I know I work that quickly, but Anthony is worthy of a long-term relationship. Plus, you should never do the things that I do. Unless I invite you to,’ she said, reminding me once again of our previous evening. Now, she paused for emphasis. ‘You don’t want to hop in the sack with him on a first date.’ Nora is very good at choreographing the dance steps during the early part of the dating/mating ritual. She could have written a book on the subject of how to get a man to want you. It’s the staying power that she doesn’t fully grasp.
‘It’s not a date,’ I insisted over the phone, repeating, ‘I’m taking him to dinner to thank him for doing some work for me.’
‘How are your toenails?’ Nora asked.
‘What are you talking about?’ None of her questions were making sense to me. What did the state of my toenails have to do with my dinner with Anthony?
‘I never sleep with a boy if I have chipped toenail polish. Ever. I think it’s something about my attitude towards grooming habits. I’d feel all dirty if my nails weren’t properly pedicured. Dirty in a bad way,’ she explained, knowing that I am fully aware that she usually thinks ‘dirty’ is good. I tried to remember what Nora’s toenails looked like, and then got a picture of them in the gingham sandals she’d worn the night before. Yes, they’d been perfect, painted as ripe and red as shiny cherries. Now Nora lowered her voice as she gave out her trade secrets. ‘This is my surefire way for making certain I don’t give into temptation on a first date, even if the guy is totally hot. Especially if the guy is totally hot.’
‘Don’t the guys usually give in to you?’ I asked, slyly, but before she could answer I said, ‘Nora, I got a pedicure on Saturday, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to see my toes because I’m not going to sleep with him. This isn’t a date.’ I was starting to sound like a scratched CD, repeating those same words over and over.
‘Did you shave this morning?’ Nora asked next.
‘Shave what?’
‘Legs, under your arms, your … you know?’
‘My …’ I was stunned. This was a question only Nora would dream up. And I could only think about answering it because Nora was the one asking.
‘Do you need a bikini wax? I didn’t really look last night.’
I hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’ This was too much to think about. ‘I don’t shave every day, anyway. I’m really light.’
‘People with naturally light hair have all the luc
k,’ Nora said, wistfully. Yes, Nora and I do look a lot alike, but our hair colour is dramatically different. Since Nora dyes hers all the time, nobody would really know that. But I have light-brown hair and her natural shade is much closer to black. ‘With your peach fuzz fur, it almost doesn’t matter. But it still matters. Not shaving is even more of a turn off. If I absolutely, positively, no-doubt-in-my-mind want to keep myself from sleeping with a guy too soon, even if I have chipped toenail polish, I don’t shave. Just to make sure. There’s nothing less attractive than scraggly hair down there. Especially when it’s black, like mine. I’ve only made exceptions twice, and one of those times was for a guy who was just into the idea of lathering me up and shaving me bare. He actually insisted that I abstain from shaving for a week before our date …’ Nora trailed off, lost in the world of her memories. I remembered that guy. Nora had dated him for almost a month, which was nearly a record for her.
‘I’m not sleeping with him,’ I said again, bringing the conversation back around to me and Anthony. ‘This isn’t a date.’ I paused, considering. ‘Besides, we really are going straight from work. When could I possibly shave? In the bathroom here? Using the liquid soap in the canisters by the sink?’ I had a vision of myself with my pants down, spreading the rose-pink bubbles all over my nether regions, trying to explain my actions to any of the other women in the bathroom who might be primping or using the facilities. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
‘I said “don’t”,’ Nora repeated. ‘Unless you do want to sleep with him. If that’s the case, Eli, you can just go to Paradise Salon on your lunch hour and get a wax. It’s right around the corner from you, and Natasha does a fabulous job on bikini areas. It hurts like hell, but she won’t miss a hair.’ Nora paused, obviously checking the clock. ‘That will give you plenty of time for the redness to fade before tonight.’ She paused again. ‘So the big question, Eli, the look-deep-inside-yourself question is this: do you, or don’t you, want to fuck him?’
