by Celia Hayes
I swear, when I heard him pretending to be so calm, my first instinct was to go straight there and choke him, but I was too tired to argue, so I just took a deep breath and allowed myself to have a relaxing chat, trying to suppress my violent desire to go and give him a good kick in the balls.
We stayed on the phone talking about everything and nothing until it was gone one in the morning and it was… nice. It was unusually and unexpectedly nice. After that day, the same thing happened almost on a regular basis. At first we would talk only at night, then also during my lunch break, and now we call each other in the morning too. We just say good morning, nothing else, but it has become a lovely routine. And when he’s late, I actually miss his calls. Our conversations change tone at night, when a quick hello becomes a whole story. This happens every day, except yesterday, because he was away for a conference. He’s coming back tonight from Los Angeles. He took the 18:00 flight and asked me to go out with him when he got back. Just the two of us. I am still astonished by his request.
A real, actual date. No quick kisses snatched behind the coffee machine, no rolling about amongst the sofas of the Ritz or shocking confessions in the lift. It will be a normal date, with him picking me up from home, bringing me flowers and taking me out for a seafood dinner. I don’t really know how I should feel about it all, to be honest. Since that first time we kissed, he hasn’t made any more advances and our relationship seemed to have become a simple friendship. But then the other day, while I was trying to convince him that puffed rice is far better than choco flakes, he said, “What if I ask you to go out on a date with me? Would you say yes?” I genuinely thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. I tried to say no in every way I knew how. I told him that I was too busy, then I said I wasn’t feeling well and in the end I had to remind him about Dave. Because I still feel the same about Dave. I know that I will never get to be his girlfriend, but I love my routines and dealing with one impossible crush at a time is more than enough to be going on with. Why should I overdo things and add an event organiser who’s totally out of my league to my impossible goals too? Al doesn’t seem to think my feelings for Dave are really that important, though. He just said that he forgave me for lying so terribly to him and that he would come by to pick me up at eight. Then he hung up. That was it.
When I realised that I was going to be spending the evening with him and had actually accepted his offer at only the third attempt, I put aside any sense of guilt and bought a new dress. Yes, it really is a dress, and it’s only the latest in a long series too, because when I decided to take part in Beautiful Curvy, I had to put aside what, for me, was one of the most sacred aspects of my lifestyle – wearing baggy clothes. I have had to completely abandon what I once considered an inalienable right.
“The second step consists in deciding your strategy.”
“Strategy?”
“Yes, strategy!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Curvy is not just some simple contest, it’s a visionary media event.”
“All eyes are on Curvy.”
“Everybody is waiting to know who will be the next face of Curvy.”
“Who will it be?”
“Will she live up to her promise?”
“Or will she be just a flop?”
“In the meantime the TV, press, stylists and all the rest are queuing up to participate in the event.”
“We’re talking about millions of dollars from the sponsors alone!”
“And what does that mean?”
“Yes, what does that mean?”
“I… I don’t know…” I admit.
“It means that from now on all the contestants will have to live constantly under the spotlight.”
“They will be photographed and filmed whatever they do.”
“When they go out of their houses.”
“When they go to work.”
“When they think that nobody’s around so they can retouch their lipstick in their rear view mirror.”
“Every time!”
“But that’s illegal,” I protest. “What about my privacy?”
“You don’t have any privacy any more, and you won’t have for at least another three weeks, Sam.”
“That’s why you can’t risk being seen in any outfit that’s not absolutely impeccable.”
“No more messy hair.”
“No more sneakers.”
“What?”
“No more tracksuits.”
“No, come on,” I wheeze, “I need my tracksuits.”
“No, forget about them.”
“Absolutely no tracksuits, ever.”
“Oh my God… What should I wear then?”
“That’s a good question!”
“We need to build a new image.”
“Someone who can be a style icon.”
“Let’s take a look inside your closet!”
“What? My closet? No… wait. I’ve been really, really busy lately… I haven’t had much time for shopping and…”
“Is that really all you have in your closet?”
“Well, erm, yes…”
“Good God! This is going to be hard…”
“Can I keep my university hoodie at least?”
“No, it’s horrible, get rid of it!”
“And this…”
“And this…”
“And this too…”
“But those are my pyjamas!”
“Do you think Prince Charming would have wanted to wake Sleeping Beauty up if he had found her in the tower wearing something like that?”
“Well…”
“I don’t think so!”
And so my wardrobe is now packed with clothes that I would have never thought I would wear. I didn’t even know skirts in my size existed – I used to choose my clothes from the ‘Curtains and Gardening’ departments… Try to imagine my mother’s face after she went from having to look at pictures of me as a kid for a sight of my knees to seeing me going out wearing a yellow floral dress and a crossover cardigan. She said she called Aunt Molly to tell her about it, but I get the feeling she was actually on the phone to the police to report that I’d been kidnapped and that there was somebody else masquerading as me. I don’t know if she was complaining about the new version and asking for her old one back or whether she was happy with the one she had now. And I don’t think I even want to know.
“Great, I’ve done everything I had to,” I say to myself after a look at my clean desk. There are neither documents left to look through or drafts to revise. It’s six in the evening and I am free, ready to go to the hairdresser’s, have a shower and get ready for my first date in four years. Well, as long as I don’t count my grandma’s sneaky attempts at setting me up with Alfred, the owner of the convenience store on 23rd Street.
Feeling more and more enthusiastic, I shove my stuff into my bag, switch the computer off and put my mobile in my pocket. The only thing left to do is give Terry a call to let her know that I won’t be able to go to her house after dinner.
“Sam,” says Dave suddenly, appearing at my cubicle.
“Oh… Hi Dave.”
“Look, I need those drafts about…” he says, before stopping and staring at me. I stare back at him in confusion. “Err…” He scratches his head. “Yes, those drafts about tomorrow’s special report on foreign affairs.”
I check the time and realise that I haven’t got one minute to spare or I’ll be late for my date. “Dave, I’m really sorry but you hadn’t mentioned them to me.”
“Ah…” He obviously hadn’t been expecting an answer like that and stands there speechless.
Feeling guilty, I mumble “Is it a problem? I mean…”
“No, no, of course not,” he answers, trying to act as indifferently as he can. He stands by my door, playing for time. “I’m sure Jane can take care of them.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I murmur in relief.
“Never mind then, go back to what you were doing,” he s
ays. “Just one last thing, about those notes you took for…”
“Hi, Sam!” says Nicholas, greeting me happily as he walks past. He’s been talking to me again for the last few days. And he’s not the only one: Albert from Sport & Fitness offered to give me a lift home yesterday. But what happened this morning is even more incredible! I still can’t believe it, but I actually managed to avoid getting a fine for unauthorised parking! I can barely express the emotions in words – in all my twenty-six years, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy. I was so amazed that I had to call Terry and talk about it for one whole hour.
“Hi, Nicholas,” I reply with a smile.
Dave coughs to get my attention: “As I was saying…”
“I’m sorry, Dave, I didn’t hear you. What was it you were saying?”
“I need the notes about the Fashion Week.”
“Of course, they’re ready.”
“Okay, I still don’t know when I’ll be available. I’ll call you later and let you know about it, I need to check my agenda first…”
“Sure, take your time,” I reassure him, checking the time again. Damn it, it’s really late! He notices my gesture and it seems to annoy him.
“Sam, I’m going home, do you need a lift?” says Albert, who walks past at just that moment.
“That would be great!” I exclaim. If I hurry up I can even put on some make-up.
“Sam,” Dave murmurs from behind me when I already have one foot outside my cubicle.
“What?” I say in surprise, turning back towards him.
“Bye,” he says, without hiding his irritation.
“Oh, right. Sorry, I’m in a rush…” I say, scratching my head.
“Sam, are you ready?”
“I…” I look at Dave, then at Albert who’s tapping his foot against the door. “Bye, Dave,” I say and rush away.
Chapter 16
Incident at North Beach
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say to Al while I push a lock of hair behind my ear.
It’s just past eight in the evening and I’m almost perfectly on time. Only a quarter of an hour ago I would have never believed it was possible. And yet against all odds here we are, standing outside my house. We’re both a little nervous and don’t really know what to say, and I am dressed way more showily than he is. I’m not quite sure how I managed it, but I somehow succeeded in getting a red sheath dress to fit me and it made me so happy that I decided to ignore the symptoms of asphyxiation that I started feeling as soon as I closed the zipper and just enjoy the moment. But now that I can’t go back in and get changed I am really starting to miss my leggings and pullover: if I were wearing them, at least I’d be able to make simple gestures – you know, like lifting my arms up.
The thing is that I feel like there’s some sort of heavy stone on my chest. I can’t move properly, my hands are tingling… it’s not the dress’s fault, it’s just my anxiety. I don’t recall ever being this nervous before in all my life. I just can’t keep still: I scratch my nose, then fix my dress… I just don’t know what to say nor where to look. The last time I actually went on a date was so long ago that I really don’t remember what I’m supposed to do any more, and in addition to that I’ve also got the stupid feeling that all my neighbours are spying on us incredulously from behind their curtains. I know, it’s just my paranoia, and I can usually handle it okay, but right now I’ve got one too many internal conflicts to deal with. And you’re not going to get to Nirvana on your first date, are you?
“Are you okay?” Al asks me, raising one of his eyebrows.
Why does he have to be so incredibly handsome? He didn’t even need to dress up: he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a hoodie, so I guess it didn’t take him more than ten minutes to get ready. I usually spend my first half an hour just trying to open the tub of foundation cream.
“Sam?” he says, touching my arm in search of some kind of reaction.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?” He repeats.
“Me? Sure,” I lie. “Everything’s fine.”
Al doesn’t reply, but judging from his expression, I’d guess he’s still sceptical.
“It’s this dress,” I say to try and explain my anxiety. He leans back to check it out and doesn’t seem to understand what I’m referring to. “It’s too tight,” I explain. “And my hair is…” I continue while trying to straighten it. “I ran out of hair mousse, and now it looks…” I can’t find the right words to describe it. “I look ridiculous, I’m sorry.”
“Let me take a look at you,” murmurs Al, and moves closer to inspect me better. He starts by looking at my feet, and then gradually raises his gaze as he studies all the details of my outfit. When his eyes eventually meet mine, he caresses me and says, almost in a whisper, “You’re gorgeous.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you?”
“No,” I admit, while trying to avoid his gaze as much as possible.
“Can I kiss you?” he says, the candour of his tone taking me by surprise.
“But… where?” I ask, flustered. “Here? Now?”
Al doesn’t reply, but takes my face in his hands, bends over me and kisses me as if he had been waiting for that moment for all his life – as if in that moment the entire world around us has disappeared. He continues kissing me, ignoring the passing cars and even Mrs Philips, who is pretending she is throwing something in the trash can just so she can make sure this man is actually holding me. Even Mr Cooth’s horrible cat shows up to sharpen its claws on the saddle of an old motorbike belonging to the new resident on the fourth floor, Brad. Al eventually opens his eyes and takes a long, deep breath, remaining close to my lips and maintaining eye contact with me. “I couldn’t wait for the goodnight kiss,” he jokes. Immediately afterwards, though, his expression grows worried. “Are you mad at me?” His eyes seem to be begging me to say ‘no’.
“I…” I try to answer but can’t come up with anything. My confusion doesn’t come from the fact that I’m not sure whether I wanted that kiss – on the contrary, the problem is that I just found out that I had actually been longing for it. My life was simple before I met him: I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted and I was perfectly aware that I would never be able to get what I wanted while still being who I was. Now, though, it all feels as though it’s slipping through my fingers – the boundaries are becoming thinner and thinner and I feel more and more disorientated, my thoughts are confused, my heart is pounding and there is one single absurd question in my mind: can a kiss taste of apricot? Because I swear that Al tastes of apricot. I think that it might be the most astonishing discovery of all my life, and it’s still only eight thirty in the evening. He’s really soft too – I mean it, his lips are as soft as…
What the hell am I thinking?
Oh, my God, I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it strikes me that for one moment I actually wasn’t thinking about Dave! That has never happened before. What if I’m on the right track towards getting over him? Just the idea makes me panic: for me Dave isn’t just some deputy editor I fell in love with – he’s the rock where I ran ashore, the comforting thought in the night, my daydream. Dave is the pillar around which I’ve built all my castles in the air, and the thought of losing him makes me feel dizzy, as though there’s nothing for me to hold onto any more while I fantasise about what could never be. At least until I met Al. Now I’m a different person, I’m not the same Sam I was a few weeks ago. And when I reply “No, I’m not mad at you,” Al seems to believe me for once. It’s almost like he realises that I’m starting to grasp a truth that was always clear to him. So he looks around, smiles, then takes my hand and leads me towards his car.
“So, do you want to get something to eat? I’m starving!”
After about twenty minutes we’re roaming about in North Beach, enjoying the various odours of the city. It’s always crowded in the evening, plus the weather is nice at the moment, and then there’s the fashion fest
ival, which always brings in a lot of curious people. It’s nice to see all the people coming and going and watch the buskers playing their music, and I let him lead me through the neon signs to a small Italian restaurant. There aren’t too many people waiting for a table inside, the sofas look very comfortable and I have heard that the pizza here is really nice. Judging from the ones I see a waiter carrying to a couple sitting by the cashier, they certainly do look tasty.
“Please, take a seat!” says a middle aged man with a thick black moustache and a pot belly. “My name is Oreste, and I’m the head waiter here. A table for two?” he asks, while indicating a free table not far from the entrance.
“What do you think about that one?” Al asks me.
“It’s fine with me.”
“It’s fine with her.”
“Great, just give me a minute to get it ready for you then.”
“Wait, hold on a sec,” says Al suddenly, looking slightly apprehensive. “Sam,” he says, “would you mind if we take another table? It’s a little crowded in here.”
“I don’t mind,” I reassure him, “we can sit wherever you want.”
“Could we have a table in the other room?” Al asks Oreste, indicating a table in a private area, separated from the rest of the room by a hand-decorated divider.
“I’m afraid that’s already taken,” Oreste explains apologetically. “But table twelve should be free in a few minutes. Would you like to wait at the bar? I’ll ask Pete to prepare an aperitif for you,” he adds, “compliments of the house.”
Al wants me to decide, and I can’t resist the way he looks at me. So I nod and we take a stool at the cosy little bar where they serve me a glass of red wine. I know it’s not the champagne of the Ritz, but I am absolutely fine with it anyway.
“Do you like it here?” Al asks me, to break the silence.
“It’s nice,” I reply, hiding my nose in the glass and blushing when I see him looking at me. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing, what do you mean?”
“I… I don’t know,” I stutter confused. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
