Who’s That Girl?

by Celia Hayes

  “And straight, please!” I add as he’s going to get it.

  I’m no expert, but I get the feeling that this is a hell of a party – everybody here looks like they’re in seventh heaven! The organisers, musicians and presenters alternate on the stage, but everybody is still waiting for the man behind the event, Adam Graham. I don’t even know if he’s here, but since he’s famous for being an eccentric kind of guy, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him arriving just at the end of the evening, maybe drunk and wearing a pinstriped suit and a pair of sunglasses.

  “Your drink,” says the waiter, giving me my glass.

  “Thank you,” I reply, taking it and noticing that it’s full to the brim.

  “Strange choice,” someone comments, but I don’t pay any attention. He must have thought that I was an actual guest, and I don’t really want to disappoint him. I would actually quite like to be mistaken for some snooty, shamelessly rich heiress for once in my life, if only for one night. I’d like someone to think I’m just like any of those glittering girls dancing at this party. It’s a stupid idea, I know. I smile to myself and tip my head back, knocking back the contents of the glass in one gulp. Unfortunately, I realise pretty much immediately that I have overestimated my ability to handle spirits… I don’t even know why I did it. Had I read somewhere that it was supposed to be the proper way to drink vodka, maybe? Anyway, I soon discover that it’s one of those things you can do only after years of practice, and then only with your cardiologist’s approval, because as soon as I swallow the vodka, I start coughing my lungs out. I cover my face, but when I finally stop coughing, my face is as red as the curtains, though less velvety.

  “Why are you drinking vodka?” says the same voice, annoyingly.

  “Because I’m on a diet,” I reply harshly, wiping my lips with a tissue.

  “What?” The voice bursts out laughing.

  He’s really getting on my nerves, so I turn round to tell him to take a hike and go bother somebody else with his irritating questions, but then I realise I’m talking to the rugby player I met earlier. He’s looking at me calmly, holding a glass of champagne and leaning on the bar.

  “Oh, you’re the gentleman I met before.”

  “Yep, I guess that would be me,” he confirms with a sly smile.

  “Sorry then.”

  “About what?”

  “I was about to say something rude.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, thank God – I saw who you were before I opened my mouth.”

  “Did I bother you?” he asks, seemingly surprised by my reaction.

  “Of course not! If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t even be here now,” I reply, indicating the hall.

  “Well, that’s true enough,” he says. “So, are you enjoying the party?”

  “Yes, it’s amazing,” I reply enthusiastically. “I’ve never been to a gala before.”

  “How come?”

  “Well… I’ve just never been invited, I guess. I usually hang out with… a different kind of people.”

  “Different how?”

  “Different in what they do, I guess… My friends are the kind of people who like bars, you know. Beer with a head on it, burnt steak and fries, all that good stuff.”

  “I like that too.”

  “You mean you like people who hang out in bars?”

  “No,” he says, restraining a laugh and looking me in the eye. “No, I mean I like steak and fries.”

  “Do you like them burnt?”

  “They’re my favourite,” he confirms, closing his eyes.

  “I would have thought you’d be the type for caviar or something.”

  “Really?”

  “Or oysters. I can picture you dressed in a fancy suit, holding a slimy oyster while singing the praises of some vintage wine,” I say. I’m not quite sure why I’m teasing him or why this is happening, but I am not feeling the oppressive embarrassment I usually feel. I don’t know whether it’s because of the vodka I just downed, or his relaxed attitude while talking to me or because the whole thing just seems too absurd. I mean, we’re surrounded by countless gorgeous women, but he’s still talking to me. Just me, Sam Preston. Sam ‘You shall go to the ball, Cinderella’ Preston. While he is… wow, an erotic fantasy that I don’t even know the name for just popped into my head. Names… Names!

  “So what’s your name?” I ask, to break the ice.

  He raises his eyebrows in surprise. Maybe I was too direct.

  “You can call me Al,” he says, after considering his answer for a couple of seconds.

  Phew, I was afraid I might have offended him. I had already imagined him running back over to Rod to tell him to put me on the Ritz’s blacklist.

  “Nice to meet you, Al,” I say, holding out a hand, “my name is Sam.”

  He observes it and then takes it gently in his. “Nice to meet you, Sam,” he says with a smile.

  Our eyes meet and my knees start to go weak. Men don’t often look at me the way he’s looking at me now, and I can’t help but blush. In my life I’ve only ever been able to dream about men like this, probably while reading Pride and Prejudice by the fireplace tucked up under a blanket, so I wasn’t really expecting to be flirting with one in the ballroom of the most expensive hotel in town, wearing a dress I bought in the sale and a pair of combat boots.

  God! I suddenly remember what I’m wearing and feel hugely embarrassed… Has he noticed my footwear? The thought makes me wince, and I struggle to look him in the eye.

  “I… I should go now,” I say, putting down my glass in visible discomfort and starting to move away.

  “Did I say something wrong?” He asks anxiously before I can run away.

  “No, of course not…”

  “Well, it sure looks that way,” he replies with a frown.

  “Trust me, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just got all the notes and pictures I needed to take, so my job here is done,” I explain, “and I don’t want to bother you any longer.”

  “You’re not bothering me at all,” he replies so seriously that I’m left speechless.

  “Look, to tell the truth, I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable.” The words come out before I can stop them. Being so close to him is really having a weird effect on my behaviour. Part of me feels like I’ve already known him for long enough to relax and open myself up to him, but the truth is that the only thing I know about this man is his name, Al. Is this Al actually able to destroy the emotional wall I’ve built over the years to protect me from getting hurt by guys?

  “In that case I’ve failed miserably, then,” he whispers sadly. “I was really hoping to get to know you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He thinks about his answer. “How honest can I be?”

  “Totally. You can be 100 per cent honest. Don’t worry about my self-esteem, I can take it.”

  “Hmm… Okay. My idea was to feign some interest in your job in the hope of getting a date with you in the next few days. For full disclosure, I should add that I’d prefer to just take you in my arms and go to my suite upstairs, where I could tear off the lovely dress you’re wearing and see what it’s so desperately trying to contain.”

  I’m speechless.

  “Yes,” he continues, answering my unspoken request for some explanation. “Yes, I know – consensual relationships, sexual equality and all that feminist propaganda stuff,” he snorts. “I was born in the wrong period of history, I would have loved the Middle Ages.” He looks out over the crowd with a serious expression on his face. “But then, on the other hand, I’d never have survived without laundromats, and that’s why I decided to be born in the twenty-first century.”

  I’m still standing there like a wax statue, doing my best to breathe. I haven’t moved a muscle.

  “I was just kidding,” he whispers.

  “Oh, I see…” I am in total shock. “Right, cool. Okay, very funny. That was hilarious, really,” I say
, without even trying to hide my irritation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. Thanks again for the photos,” I say, before fleeing the scene, leaving him standing dumbfounded by the bar.

  On his face there is one question clear for all to see: why? But that’s not really my problem. I’m sure he’ll find someone else to annoy. I have already put up with enough weirdness from strangers for one day, and all I want to do now is get back to my bedroom and start planning my revenge against highlights, zebra-striped thongs and Beyoncé.

  I walk across the lobby to the cloakroom, where a girl wearing a pant suit holds out my duster coat for me between lacquered nails. I snatch it from her and a few steps later I’m outside in the dark. Peering into the night, I try to identify a taxi amongst the car headlights that streak past, and I lift my arm when I see one, but another hand takes mine and lowers it, forcing me to turn round and see who it is. To my surprise, it’s him again – the red-haired rugby player. This time he’s looking a bit less cheerful, though.

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Are you actually asking me why I left?”

  He nods. “Exactly – so why?” he repeats, looking straight into my eyes.

  “Well, take a guess.”

  “I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t know,” he admits. “If I did something wrong, you could at least tell me what it is, instead of just walking off without saying a word.”

  “Are you kidding?” I burst out. “Really, don’t you have anything better to do?” He still doesn’t understand why I’m annoyed. “Do you think I like being made fun of by random handsome guys?”

  “When did I make fun of you?” he asks, sounding almost angry.

  “You want me to give you a list?”

  He doesn’t react.

  “For starters, insulting my intelligence with your dumb lies about my dress and then running me through your unrealistic intentions didn’t really do much for our conversation, buster.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Are you for real?” I’m starting to lose my temper. “Listen, it’s been a long day, I can hardly feel my legs any more and I already know this taxi ride is going to cost me half of my salary. I’m not really in the mood for fooling around, so let’s just say goodbye.”

  “I don’t want to say goodbye,” he protests.

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head and moving closer. He puts his hands in his pockets. I try to keep my distance, as his being so close makes me uncomfortable, but I back into a lamp post and it hurts.

  “Will you tell me what you want from me?” I ask in exasperation.

  “I already told you,” he replies, clearly trying not to laugh at me.

  “Again? Come on, cut it out.”

  “You told me I could be honest.”

  “Yes, but you said you were joking.”

  “Not about everything,” he says, moving closer again.

  The sudden intimacy confuses me. I wasn’t prepared for this and I don’t know what I should do. I don’t even know who the hell this guy is. Come on, why would anyone with half a brain be hanging out at night with a gorgeous red-haired hunk named Al, especially when he’s already told her he’d like to drag her off to his suite at the Ritz? Err… what was I saying? I got confused after I got to ‘gorgeous red-haired hunk named Al’. What was the question again?

  “Listen, Al, it’d be better if you went back inside.”

  “Don’t you like me?”

  “I don’t even know you!”

  “Oh, is that the problem? I can assure you that I’m a very nice guy,” he says, putting his hand on his chest to underline his words. “I’m not pushy, I never kill anyone on Fridays and I can promise I have the most perverse and lustful intentions about everything I can see, from here,” he says while touching my lips, “to here,” he continues, sliding his finger downwards until it reaches the neckline of my dress, which he caresses. “For the first part of the evening, at least.”

  He stares at me, but this time he doesn’t look sarcastic at all, and his expression is absolutely serious.

  “Ok, you’re crazy,” I decide. It’s the only explanation I can think of. “And I must be even crazier for allowing this to go on,” I add, annoyed, brushing his hand off my dress.

  “Why are you reacting like this?”

  “Taxi! Taxi!” I shout desperately.

  “Sam… Sam, wait,” Al says, taking my hand. “Don’t go away,” he mumbles, pulling me towards him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I actually just wanted to get to know you, honestly,” he confesses, looking embarrassed. “But you looked so cute with your eyes wide open like a baby seal that I couldn’t resist.”

  “Cute? Me?” I burst out laughing. “Hold on, are you trying to tell me you’re actually not making fun of me?”

  “Why would I make fun of you?”

  “Err, have you taken a good look at me?” I ask sarcastically.

  “That’s all I’ve been doing since I saw you in reception.”

  I admit that his confession touches me. I can’t think rationally any more so I nod while I try to pull myself back together. When I feel I can think straight again, I whisper, “I’m not your type.”

  “And what would my type be?”

  “Those other girls…” I say, gesturing to the entrance of the hotel. “One of those girls in there. So cool, so flawless… The perfect ones. Like you,” I sigh. “Super thin, super pretty…”

  “I don’t like that type of woman.”

  “Sure you don’t…”

  “I’m serious,” he says, trying to convince me.

  “You mean you like ugly women?”

  “I mean I like you,” he says, touching my hair.

  “Me? A beached whale?”

  “You don’t look like a beached whale to me.”

  “And I’m in love with someone else.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Good question.

  “Err…”

  “I’ve been wondering how they taste for the whole evening.”

  “What?” I ask stupidly.

  “These,” he says. And he kisses me.

  Chapter 11

  Hospital Love

  “You asshole!” she shouts, throwing her phone at him.

  “Madel… ouch!” Dave can’t dodge it – he’s trapped between his chair and desk and his foot’s tangled up in the telephone cable, so Madeleine’s phone hits him right in the chest. It doesn’t hurt anything, except for his pride. “Madeleine, wait,” he says, trying to stop her while she gathers her belongings from the sofa and the table. He feels like he has no dignity left after ten minutes spent inventing stupid excuses in the hope of reaching a consensual separation – hopefully a quick one without any consequences.

  “We have nothing else to say to each other.”

  “Brian, I’m sorry, something’s come up just now, I’ll call you back in a few minutes,” murmurs Dave into the phone while he continues to look at her. With a pained expression on his face, he hangs up – he hadn’t been expecting things to go so badly.

  “It’s been two years! Two years!” she shouts while she grabs her bag from the sofa near the door. “I should have known better. You promised me you’d never do it again. But this is the last time you’re ever going to see me. You know that, right?”

  “Please, try and understand…” Dave begs her, massaging his temples. “Can’t we deal with this like adults? Is what I’m asking really so absurd?” He walks from the desk across to the bookshelf where she’s standing. “All I need is a short break – and it’s for a perfectly understandable reason.”

  “You’re saying that it was you who was asking? Really, Dave?” she replies, shaking her head and glaring at him disparagingly. “Of course it was you, because it’s always about you. You and only you. Nobody else exists. But did you ever wonder what I wanted instead?” she continues, pointing a graceful finger at her lovely yellow outfit
of fitted blouse, pencil skirt and vintage belt. “San Francisco Fashion Week starts in less than three weeks, and you know very well how important it is for my life and my career. And on top of all this, I’m also going through a divorce, my personal trainer is on a spiritual retreat with yak herders in the Kailash mountains, my PA is on holiday and my house is constantly surrounded by paparazzi looking for a scoop!”

  “Yes, I do know all that. I just want you to try and understand…” says Dave, caressing her shoulder in an attempt to calm her down. But not even that suffices to soothe her temper, because Madeleine’s emotions are on the verge of exploding – she looks as though she has gone completely out of control.

  “And all this will make me eat, because food is the only way I have of unloading stress,” she says, plucking neurotically at her hair. “And my stress is just getting worse and worse. Yesterday I ate two donuts right after seeing our pictures in the New York Times. Two whole donuts, Dave! A coconut one and a cinnamon one. And then I had to spend almost three hours running on my treadmill! I can’t deal with all this right now. I have a show next Thursday, and I haven’t even finished my shoot for the Greenpeace campaign. I can’t sleep any more, and I’m throwing down all the pills I can get my hands on, but not even elephant sedatives have any effect on me now. I’ve had to go back to my therapist…”

  “Oh come on, Madeleine, you haven’t gone back to that Buddhist bullshit artist, have you? You know that he’s just stealing your money!”

  “Don’t…” Madeleine raises a warning hand. “Don’t you talk about him!”

  “Madeleine…”

  “No!”

  “Look, I…”

  “Shut up! Don’t you dare say another word!” she says, and snorts disdainfully.

  Dave snorts back and raises his hands in surrender. Let her do whatever the hell she wants to. She’s never taken any of his advice anyway, why would she start now that they’re breaking up? Because of course they both know that they are breaking up, even if they’re still talking about something temporary. And they’d agreed from the start on taking things slowly and seeing how they evolved. They both just wanted to have some fun, without commitments or responsibilities. They were two consenting adults who would meet from time to time to release the tension they’d accumulated during a week of hard work. It had seemed to work just fine, but now they had different needs and different priorities. Madeleine should try and understand him, try and appreciate his honesty and the fact that he had actually decided to see her in person to talk instead of just calling her. He had behaved more than decently, so now he is really having a hard time understanding her reaction.