by Celia Hayes
“The… the motorbikes?”
“Yeah, the motorbikes,” I say, pushing him out of my room. “Goodnight, Dave!”
“Goo… goodnight, Sam,” I hear him murmur from the corridor as I slam the door in his face.
Chapter 23
Oriental Teachings: the Meaning of Life
“The choice of PFC has certainly affected production,” is the opinion of the man in the tuxedo standing next to the bowl of punch.
“That might be true at certain levels, but beyond that it is pointless discussing the matter,” replies Michael Fox, the editor of a popular health and wellbeing magazine.
“Yet only 15 per cent of the brands in circulation took up the ‘Detox’ project.”
“Greenpeace’s initiatives are completely irrelevant. There’s no proper regulation and the indiscriminate use of toxic products in textile production continues regardless,” says a third man, a lawyer dressed in an immaculate suit and tie. He is standing next to Tom, rolling his cigar between his fingers. Tom listens carefully, taking a glass of scotch from a tray. He has left the editorial staff of The Chronicle to deal with everything, because he wouldn’t miss Fashion Week for anything in the world and he seems to be enjoying every minute of the evening. The perfect opportunity to escape from routine and to let yourself be dazzled by all that glitter and beauty.
“And this is at the expense of the consumers,” cuts in the man in the tuxedo. “With the acquiescence of the government.”
“I still remember the case of that famous brand of shoes which ended up annihilated after a class action represented by Gordon & Slater. There were more than three victims in less than two months,” says Michael Fox, lifting his half empty glass. “Wasn’t it The Chronicle that broke the story?”
“What brand are we talking about? I can’t quite remember at the moment…” murmurs Tom, trying to recall. “Did you handle that one?” he asks his deputy editor.
“Hmmm… what?” murmurs Dave, who pretty much stopped following as soon as he arrived. The grand opening of Fashion Week is now over and for the next six days, the various fashion houses will be showing off their autumn and winter collections in the halls of the Globe Park Hotel. The festival loses all trace of worldliness and becomes an industry event dominated by stars in search of visibility. Even so, unlike most guests, Dave keeps himself apart, preferring the bar to the catwalk shows.
“That scandal of the toxic dyes imported from China. Wasn’t that one of yours?” asks Tom.
“I don’t think so,” says Dave in a distracted way. He’s been like that since this morning when he gave up the idea of sleeping after five hours of tossing and turning on the couch and realising that Sam was no longer in her room.
“If I’m not mistaken, something very similar happened last year in Burma,” says Michael, massaging his chin. And the conversation resumes from where it had broken off without the help of Dave, who, turning the stem of his glass of cognac between his fingers, has returned to contemplative silence. If he could choose, he would be at home now, watching old basketball games with Brian.
At the end of the day, what needs doing has been done. Interviews, photo shoots… It’s all already done. There are only the catwalk shows left. Nothing that directly affects The Chronicle, in fact, except for Margaret’s article – a piece in the Culture and Shows section that every year just summarises the most interesting events of Fashion Week – so there’s no need for Dave to stay. And that was exactly what he had been thinking. Go to the conference in the lobby, grab a bite to eat with a couple of colleagues from New York and then return to Union Square for three, half past three at the latest. Just time to drop by the office and then lock himself up in his Nob Hill flat until Monday. As he’d been going downstairs to reception with the keys still in his hand, though, Dave had bumped into Tom, who had asked him to stay. Just one more night, to watch the first shows. And anyway, it is Friday – what the hell would he do at home alone on a Friday?
Needless to say, Dave hadn’t been able to say no. How could he have, after all that Tom has done for him… so here he is, sipping cognac. One thing is certain, though: he would never have agreed if he’d imagined that they were going to keep him there for hours. But by the time he’d realised that, it was too late to get out of it. He had already said yes to Tom and confirmed his presence at the hotel for another night. Sure, he could have invented an excuse to get away. He’d even tried, but in the meantime, the invitation had also been extended to Sam, and she… well, she’d seemed so happy. If Dave had left, Sam would have had to leave. So he’d stayed. Yeah… and so that she wouldn’t have to go home in the middle of the night, he’d also been forced to reconfirm the suite, postponing his departure until the following day.
All for her, and that had been the thanks he’d got… God, if only he could go back in time! “Don’t you agree?” somebody suddenly asks him. He has no idea who it was or what they’re talking about, and he doesn’t care. He just says “yes, of course,” so as not to seem rude. He prefers to keep to himself. He’s not in the mood for conversation.
Which is not something you could say about Sam. She is on the other side of the pool making a show of ignoring him, as she has been doing more or less all day. She had lunch with some Japanese businessmen and in the afternoon invented a string of ridiculous excuses to avoid him.
He managed to organise a short meeting for her with the staff of Beautiful Curvy. The ideal opportunity to interview the people behind the project. Wasn’t that what she wanted? She’d made such a big deal about that damn story, and then when she finally had the opportunity to write a whole piece? Puff! She’d vanished into thin air and remained unavailable until the meeting was over, re-appearing magically in the lobby with a mortified expression on her face and saying that if she’d imagined even for one moment that he needed her… And now? Just the same: instead of working, she’s there acting like it’s a vacation. She’s wearing an embarrassing dress, talking to anyone who will let her, knocking back champagne and listening to the orchestra. She’s also made friends with a couple of models from GQ. Cover-boy types with blank expressions, gelled hair and tight jeans. They’ve been there for hours buzzing around her pretending that they’ve got anything more interesting than their beauty treatments to talk about. He wouldn’t mind finding out exactly what the dumbest looking one of the two had whispered into her ear to make her laugh so hard… Presumably it wasn’t a comment on how good the orchestra was, because he sure doesn’t look much like a jazz fan.
“Dave?”
And Sam laughs. And keeps laughing. It’s so damn irritating. Doesn’t she realise that she’s making a fool of herself in front of everyone?
“Dave!”
“Huh?” he says, starting when Tom finds himself obliged to raise his voice to get his attention.
“They’ve all gone,” Tom says.
There are just the two of them now. The two of them and the bowl of punch.
“They tried to say goodbye, but you seemed a little… distracted.”
“Distracted? What are you talking about? I’m just really tired, and it’s so damn noisy in here…” He indicates the orchestra, which has taken a short break.
“Yeah, it’s chaos,” says Tom, who over the years has learned to recognise a lost cause when he sees one. “So, did you make it through the weekend?”
“Looks that way.”
“No misadventures?”
“No, luckily. To be honest, it went much better than I’d expected,” admits Dave, draining the last drop of cognac from his glass.
“Yes, I agree,” replies Tom, taking a cigar from his pocket. “I’m proud of you.”
“Really?”
“Really! You’ve behaved perfectly,” says Tom. “I didn’t expect it.”
“You’re not the only one,” whispers Dave resentfully. “I’ve been noticing growing disbelief from various quarters.”
“And whose fault would that be?”
“Wow, thank you
very much,” Dave replies with hilarity. “I’m so flattered by all your faith in me.”
“You should be happy. There is no merit if there aren’t any obstacles. And yours were almost insurmountable.”
“Okay, okay… you’ve made yourself very clear,” says Dave. “You don’t have to keep going on about it.”
“Fine, I won’t then,” says Tom with a smile. He retrieves a silver lighter from his pocket and, shielding the flame with one hand, takes a few long draws on his cigar.
The orchestra starts up again and Dave takes the opportunity to have a look at those bushes Sam has been near for almost the entire evening and where, just like before, she’s blissfully listening to a jazz arrangement of At Last in the company of the two guys she met during the interviews. She seems to really like it all – the music, the stars, the fireworks in the distance. He can’t see her very clearly from here, but that smile of hers… her eyes must be shining.
“You know, Dave,” says Tom, cutting through the tangle of his thoughts after noticing his uncharacteristic silence. “Sometimes we should just accept that we aren’t invincible.”
“Speak for yourself!”
“Dave,” Tom reminds him, impatiently.
“What?” Dave asks, suddenly irritated. “Oh, come on, Tom, you know I’m not much for all that pseudo-philosophical Seven years in Tibet bullshit – all that Ching, Ming, Yang stuff…”
“Pfffff,” snorts Tom with a shrug. “I don’t know why I condemned her to spend time with an asshole like you.”
“Would you mind telling me what the hell you’re trying to tell me?”
“That you should get off your ass and go and get her, Dave. Otherwise tonight you’ll be going back to your room on your own, because, unfortunately for you, neither of those two strapping young lads over there seems particularly disposed to acknowledge that you were there first. And that is obvious without any need for Ching, Ming or Yang,” he says mercilessly. But it’s for a good cause, so he doesn’t feel guilty. He lets his words sink in and then, before leaving, gives Dave a powerful slap on the back. “Cheer up, kiddo! Sooner or later we all go through it. The only question is when.”
Chapter 24
Starting Again from Me
“Hey, that’s not fair… Come one, that’s really not fair – mine’s bigger than the others! “I protest, lifting my full to overflowing glass. I try to knock it back in one, but without success. I don’t think I have the necessary co-ordination to handle salt, lemon and tequila without risking drowning. It’s certainly more difficult than it looks in films, not to mention more disgusting. Okay, yes, I’ve never tried one before. And yes, I did have an adolescence, but it revolved more around Coke and potato chips than bottles of booze stolen from convenience stores, so I think it’s fairly understandable that I’ve just lost my game of shots by the side of the pool.
“Just give up. It’s over,” jokes Ian, staring at me with those bad-boy eyes of his.
“No, I’m sorry, but I can’t agree to that. I have to try it again!”
“No way, Ian’s right. You have to pay the price,” says Brandon, Dolce & Gabbana’s testimonial for Fashion Week. You can tell they’re both models by the way they tilt their heads when they walk. Have you noticed? It’s as though the world only makes sense for them if it’s viewed from the right angle. Three quarters to the right. They walk as though they’re in a daze, their thumbs between their lips with their eyes staring blankly into space. I imagine it must make them feel terribly sexy, but it just makes me want to laugh. I don’t want to hurt their feelings, though – they’re such sweethearts. And they promised to take at least a dozen compromising photos to pass around The Chronicle’s office tomorrow morning. I can’t imagine what will happen when they see me on the cover of next month’s Vogue. That’s the type of thing that puts the spring back in your step.
“No way, that is not happening,” I protest. “It’s because of this dumb stool. It keeps wobbling! No, we need to do it again, and this time, I’m going to say when we start!”
“Okay, okay,” says Ian, giving in and passing our empty shot glasses to the barman. “Another two.”
“No – another three,” interjects Brandon.
“You’re disqualified,” Ian reminds him.
“Like hell I am! Anyway, if she gets another chance, I’ve got every right to have another chance, too.”
“Sounds legit,” I joke, sitting between them. “We have to be fair. So? Are you ready?” I cheerfully bang my hands on the bar.
“Ready!” says Ian, handing out the shots.
“Down in one, though, otherwise it doesn’t count. The first two to finish go through to the next round,” says Brandon, running through the rules as he passes me a little plastic bowl. “Your salt, madam…”
“Why, thank you.”
“Cool – but if I win, I want a kiss,” whispers Ian, getting comfortable on his stool.
“You hear that, Brandon? Because if I win, you’re the one who has to give him the kiss.”
“Who? Get the hell out of here!”
“That’s not what you said last night,” teases Ian.
I burst out laughing and nearly spill my drink. “That’s enough! You’re conspiring to try and make me lose!” I say, and just as I finally find the courage to lick all that salt off my hand, my little boozy evening comes to an abrupt end.
“I’d say you’ve had more than enough to drink for one night,” snaps Dave, snatching the whole lot – salt, lime and shot glass – out of my hands. I don’t even know when he turned up or how long he’s been standing there watching me.
“Hey!” I say, without managing to stop him from giving everything back to the barman.
“Take it easy, dude,” says Ian, playing the peacemaker. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“Sure. And from this moment on, you can have a little fun on your own, because she’s coming with me,” snaps Dave, grabbing my wrist. He gives them a glare and then drags me off towards the swimming pool.
“And if I don’t want to go with you?” I say, trying to jerk my arm out of his grip, but he’s stronger than me, and I’m too drunk to stop him. “Dave, cut this out right now!”
“Listen, if Sam wants to stay, she’s staying,” says Brandon, blocking our way. He’s more or less as tall as Dave, but seems to know a bit more about how you handle a bar room brawl.
“Get out of my way or I’m calling security,” snaps Dave, seemingly unconcerned by his manner.
“No, man – you’re the one who needs to get out of the way,” responds Brandon, not backing off.
“Can I say something?” I cut in.
“No,” mutters Dave, and I decide that for the moment I’m going to do as he says. As soon as I can walk without falling over and we’re no longer in public, we will certainly be continuing the discussion.
“Sam, is this guy bothering you?” asks Ian, who also appears.
“No, it’s just the way he is.”
“Sam, I told you to shut up!” says Dave, giving me a very mean look.
“Dude, do you want to stop talking to the lady like that?” says Brandon, who looks like he can’t wait to give Dave a lesson. And I can’t say I blame him – I would too, if I could…
“Brandon, really,” I intervene before one of them does something stupid. “Really, it’s fine, I can…”
Dave’s voice, however, cuts me off, rendering any attempt to make excuses for him pointless.
“A shared view, but not one which anybody asked you to air,” he replies with his usual confidence. Unfortunately, that’s the way Dave is: arrogant and convinced that he is always right. “Now, if you gentlemen would be kind enough to let us pass, we will be on our way and we can all continue our evening in the way we see fit.”
“Did you hear that, Ian?” Brandon does not seem to want to back down and takes another step towards Dave. “I’m not going anywhere – let go of the girl’s arm and buzz off.” His voice has changed and his expre
ssion has grown dark and threatening.
“Look,” Dave says, who suddenly seems to lose his patience. “I’ve met plenty of tough guys pumped up with ecstasy just like you, so do us both a favour and get lost. I’m the deputy editor of The Chronicle, and in less than twenty minutes I can have all the freelance photographers on the west coast on your ass. So what do you say? Not a problem, right?”
An embarrassing silence falls.
“Woah, listen man…” stammers Ian, moving backwards and raising his hands.
Brandon backs off too. “It was just a drink, man. There’s no need to get…” he says, his confidence disappearing.
“No, I didn’t think so,” Dave says. “But I don’t want to keep you.”
“What… what does it mean? Dave, don’t you dare…” I say, trying to put a brake on his behaviour, but it’s too late. No one is going to dare talk to me after this for fear of running the risk of ending up being lambasted in the pages of The Chronicle. The two of them mumble some incoherent excuses and then disappear without raising a single finger in my defence. Real pals, the pair of them!
“Dave, what the hell has gotten into you?”
“Shut up!”
“Dave, will you cut this out?” I whisper while he drags me past the pool and towards the hotel lobby. “I don’t want to go.”
“You should have thought about that before.”
“That’s not up to you to decide!” I manage to break his grip and stop a few steps from the stairway which leads from the garden back to the hotel entrance. Dave stops too. He puts his hands in his pockets and slowly looks round at me.
We are in a darker part of the avenue, hidden from indiscreet eyes, away from the rest of the guests, the orchestra, waiters and champagne glasses. Apart from our own breathing, we can only hear the distant arrangements of the orchestra wafting over on the breeze and see the faint light that reaches us from the windows of the entrance.
Dave is absolutely enraged. But so am I. What does he want? What the hell does he want? What right has he to ruin my evening? And why should I go back to the room with him? Hmm… wasn’t he the one who said that he didn’t care?
