by Celia Hayes
“Oh Lord,” she murmurs, and I can hear the panic in her voice. “Okay, stay where you are a minute. Where are you?”
I peer around me. “Here.”
“Here… Sam, where is here?”
“A bit further down than there.”
“When I get hold of you, I am going to kick your ass,” she threatens. “If you don’t tell me where you are, how the hell can I come and get you?”
“I don’t want you to come and get me.”
“No, Sam, I’m not going to discuss this. What can you see around you? A sign, the name of a street, what?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”
“No, everything is not fine.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m just going to do something and then go home,” I say, and then I throw my phone into my handbag. “Okay, one more push and you’ve done it. You can do this!”
After taking a couple of seconds to try and get my bearings, I attempt to head for the hotel entrance without wobbling on my feet too much. Maybe I shouldn’t have drunk that last Sex on the Beach, but it had such a cute little umbrella in it…
“Ms Preston.” Like every evening, the night porter at the Ritz is by the entrance to greet guests returning to the hotel after a night out. He recognises me straightaway – without intending to, I’ve become a regular. “Good evening.” That’s why he greets me as though he has known me forever and when I almost trip up on a fold in the carpet, he comes over to help me stay upright on my heels. “Do you feel okay, Ms Preston?”
“Oh, Victor, how nice to see you,” I say, wobbling dangerously. “Do I feel okay? Sure, never been better!”
“Hmm…” He clearly doesn’t believe me. “Shall I call you a taxi?”
“No, I’d just dropped by to say hello to Al. Do you know if he’s in his room?”
“I haven’t seen him go out,” he replies, “but you’d have to ask at reception.”
“Who’s on tonight? Arthur?”
“No, Rod’s on tonight,”
“Oh God,” I mutter. “I can’t stand him.” Victor smirks. I imagine he feels the same way about Rod, but for obvious reasons he can’t say anything. “Oh well, Rod it is then,” I say, and set off across the lobby, peering into the mirrors I pass to make sure I look okay, or as okay as possible given the circumstances. The question is: what the hell am I doing in front of the Ritz at this time of night? The answer is: something stupid. That’s what it is, I can feel it. But I think I need it. And it’s not even the first – the truth is that it’s only the latest in a long line of questionable choices that I’ve been making since this morning. Like this dress…
I’ve been out all day. I wandered aimlessly around the city, until I stopped in a mall where I saw it. It was amazing. Red, low-cut, tight. One of those dresses that I would never wear, not even if I actually did lose twenty pounds, because in order to be able to wear it you’d not only need a cover-girl physique, you’d also need a massive dose of self-confidence. And like an idiot… I sat down there, in front of the shop window, and stared at it for I don’t know how long.
God, what a dream…
Once, just once in my life, how I would have liked to be that kind of woman. Confident, sexy, provocative and happy. Yes, because I think that if you’re like that you must be happy. Why would you be sad? Or rather, what right would you have to be sad?
And from that moment on was a succession of totally absurd decisions. First I went into the shop, then I started chatting to the sales clerk. Just for fun. I didn’t think they’d really have my size. But yes, they did. And not only did they have it, it looked like it couldn’t wait for me to try it on!
I did something crazy. Something crazy with three zeros after it. I quit my job less than eight hours ago and I spent $1,200 on a dress that, as soon as I’m sober again, I’ll probably have to burn to try and forget ever buying.
And that’s not all.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg, because then there were the bars, the three Sex on the Beaches, the bouncer at that little place on Fifth who thinks I’m called Jess and am a stripper in a nightclub. And now this. Al. The Ritz. Lipstick. The knowledge that tomorrow I will want to slap myself for it.
“What can I do for you, Miss?” a boy in his twenties asks me when I get to reception. He must have started working here recently, I have never seen him before. No trace of Rod.
“I’d like to see Al in room two hundred and four. I’m one of the contestants in the Beautiful Curvy contest,” I reply, slipping off my coat. For a moment he looks distracted and doesn’t answer, so I ask, “Can I go up?”
“What? Oh, yes… sure,” he stammers. “Just give me a moment to call up.”
“No.” I put my hand on his. “I want to surprise him.”
My gesture seems to freak him out completely. He stammers and blushes, and the idea that it’s all because of me sends me into a state of ecstasy. “So, can I?” I ask, fluttering my eyelashes and biting my lip. I’m not myself, I haven’t got the faintest idea of what’s happened to me. It must have been that last Sex on the Beach… I shouldn’t have ordered it.
“Please, go ahead,” he says. “And have a good evening,” and he scratches his head as he watches me go.
I smile back at him and make my way to the elevator. The doors close and then re-open and suddenly I’m no longer in the hall but in front of one of the many anonymous doors on the second floor, staring at a door bearing a number that by now I know by heart.
I raise a hand and am about to knock when something stops me. A memory? A flash of remorse…
I should just go away. In my head, I run down the thousand reasons why I should just take the elevator back down, call a cab and go home. Top of the list: I’m not thinking straight, I’m not ready emotionally, I’m not even sober, but above all I’m…
“An idiot,” I rebuke myself, rubbing my temples. What am I expecting? That that door is going to open and all my problems will magically dissolve? And that maybe Al can’t wait to give me a second chance after the way I behaved to him? Come on, believing in yourself is one thing but this is science fiction.
“Time for you to go home,” I murmur, turning round.
“Sam…”
I turn back again, and I find him standing barefoot in the doorway. He is wearing jeans and a blue t-shirt and his hair is wet – he must have just come out of the shower. “Did… did I knock?” I stammer. “I… I didn’t think I’d knocked.”
“You didn’t,” he says as he takes in my dress, hair and make-up.
“I’m sorry, Al, I shouldn’t have come. I’m being an idiot and I was leaving.” I point down the corridor. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Good… good night.”
“Was that for me?” he asks, indicating the dress.
“Yes. Yes it was.”
“Why?”
“Why?” And the alcohol does the rest. “I was hoping that way it would have been impossible for you to say no.”
“And are you going to leave without waiting to find out?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.
“I didn’t think it was…”
“Worried it wouldn’t work?”
“No, it would definitely work,” I protest. “It cost too much for it not to work.”
“I’d ask for a refund, then.”
“It worked with the guy on reception,” I say, trying to provoke him for no clear reason. He is right to be angry. I should just take my lumps and go home.
“Amateur.”
“Who, me?”
“No, him.”
“Why, aren’t you?”
“Try me.”
“I might.”
“What are you waiting for?” He raises a hand in challenge.
“Maybe I don’t want to show you that my purchase is infallible.”
“Maybe you are afraid that it’s the contents that aren’t infallible.”
That’s under the belt, because
he knows that’s precisely the problem. Perhaps he imagined that saying that would make me lose my head and do something stupid, and who knows – maybe in another moment I would have. Not today, though. Not after everything that happened to me this morning, when I woke up completely alone in a hotel room, feeling as used and abandoned as a stranger picked up in a bar.
It’s true. It’s really true.
“It’s true. That’s exactly what I think, “I admit. “And I don’t even know where I got the courage to come here. I still can’t understand how it’s possible that you asked me to go out with you two weeks ago, so try and imagine how much of a chance I thought I had tonight. You’re…” I struggle to find the words. “You’re wonderful and I was stupid not to realise that before. But you’re right, the contents of this dress leave something to be desired and I don’t need you to remind me of that,” I say, while a tear streaks down my cheek. “Because I already know it.” I wipe it away with the back of my hand, avoiding looking at his face. “Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have spent all that money trying to look like the woman I’ve always wanted to be, just to convince you to give me a second chance,” and I have to make a superhuman effort to hold back the tears, because the urge to cry is so powerful. I’ve been holding them back all day and I don’t think I can hold them back any more. That damn Sex on the Beach. I should never have had that last one. “Sorry… I’m sorry,” I say, backing away, discouraged. “No… I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come, but I was leaving. I didn’t… I didn’t knock,” and as I walk back to the elevator, stifling a sob in my throat, I raise a hand to say goodbye for the last time.
“Sam…” he whispers my name, frowning.
“What?”
“I hate you.”
“Al…”
“Really, at the moment I hate you.”
He takes me in his arms.
“Al, forgive me. I’ll get Victor to call me a cab and I’ll go home.”
“Forget it, you’re not going anywhere! You put this on for me and I’m not letting you go without even giving you a kiss.”
“You said you hated me,” I remind him.
“Yeah… I hate you so much that I’ve spent the last few days hoping that you would start hating me a little too, because if you keep not hating me I’m not sure I’ll make it until tomorrow.”
And I find myself standing in the middle of a corridor on the second floor wearing a red dress and with my hands grabbing a t-shirt and my mouth welded to two soft lips that taste of apricot.
After what feels like an infinitely long time we re-emerge from each other’s arms and without saying anything stand there, immobile with our eyes closed, breathless.
“I missed you so much,” he confesses.
“Al, please, hold me tight,” I whisper. I don’t think I have ever needed to be consoled so much in my whole life.
“Just tell me one thing. No, two things.”
“Whatever you want.”
“The first is do I have to go and kill him because I swear, I will. I have my car parked on the corner.”
“And the second?” I realise that it’s probably best if I don’t linger on the first.
“How the hell many Sex on the Beaches have you drunk?”
“Three.”
“Only three?”
“But before that I had a rum and Coke.”
“Okay… just promise me that you won’t take it back,” and he plucks at the shoulder strap of my dress. “At least not until tomorrow.”
“Agreed.”
“Do you want to sleep with me?”
“Al…” I wasn’t very lucky the last time I was asked that, I don’t know if I really feel like trying again for the second time in twelve hours.
“I promise I’ll be good,” he jokes, but then grows serious and whispers. “Don’t go away. I don’t want to think of you on your own tonight.”
“I don’t have any pyjamas.”
“If you get cold, I’m here.” He smiles and my final doubts dissolve. Half an hour later I’m snuggled up with him, wearing only a pair of blue pinstripe boxers and an enormous t-shirt. And finally I can breathe again, because Al is like a calm corner where everything stops moving so fast and you can’t hear the noises from outside. And I don’t want to leave it.
Chapter 28
Change Your Phone Number, Change Your Life
“Look at this: ‘Serious credit recovery company seeks hard-working strong, silent types. Preferably former bodybuilders with proven experience with references. Work paid daily plus results-related percentage’.”
“Stop talking bull. Give me that, let me see.” I rip the newspaper from her hands but, alas, she is telling the truth – that’s exactly what it says. “Wait a minute, you mean that no one checks these ads before they go to print? Really?”
“Apparently not. And anyway, what do they care? It’s a free country.”
“Terry, seriously, do you think people actually answer these?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind handling the interviews for them.”
“That’s because you’re a horrible woman!” I laugh, batting her over the shoulders with the newspaper. She tries to protect herself with a cushion, but she’s too slow to parry.
She dropped by after work and we locked ourselves in my room with a couple of beers, turned up the stereo, took off our shoes and for more than an hour we’ve been sifting through advertisements, newspapers and online magazines hoping that something will jump out to save me from destitution.
“Have you seen this one?” she asks suddenly, handing me a flyer.
“Auditions,” I read. “What is it?”
“For a holiday resort. Entertainment, stuff like that.”
“‘The photogenic girls of the Monkey Club are waiting for you’?” I read aloud. “I don’t think that’s my kind of thing.”
“Don’t you feel photogenic?” she teases.
“I don’t even know what ‘photogenic’ means!”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to The Chronicle?”
“It’s too late now.”
“It isn’t too late. I know you didn’t want me to, but I talked to Tom anyway.”
“Terry!”
“He’s waiting for you with open arms and I think he’s also given Dave what for, because there were some seriously bad vibes in the office.”
“Damn it, Terry, I asked you not to…”
“Yes, I know, but you’ve invested so much in that job. Tell me why you have to end up behind some accountant’s desk, or, worse, serving beers in some bar? Not that there is anything wrong with that, but your dream is to become a journalist, not to answer the phone for someone.”
“Because at least I would be respected as a person.”
“‘Seeking driver for weekend trips. Attractive appearance a must, friendly, generous, cheerful. Send full body photo to…’” she says, picking one at random.
“Terry, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“I’m doing it for your good.”
“Then listen to me, because my good cannot include Dave Callaghan.”
“It’s only working in the same building.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he told me to give up on Curvy and I don’t want to, Terry.”
“It’s not up to him to decide. I told you that Tom…”
“Terry, no,” I say, trying to shut down the discussion. “Maybe it was destiny that I left, have you thought about that? Let’s face it, what are the chances of one of my articles ever appearing on the front page of The Chronicle?”
“You managed it with Curvy.”
“Come on, that’s a tiny piece at the bottom of the page that nobody’s going to read.”
“It’s a start.”
“No, it’s not a start. It’s just a series of lucky coincidences that will never happen again.”
“You can’t know that.”
�
��But as I can’t be sure it’s not true, I’m looking for something else. If I’m still struggling to make a name for myself there after three years then maybe that means it just wasn’t meant to happen,” I say, trying to be objective, and then go back to sifting through the ads with a knot in my stomach and a heavy heart. I didn’t want to leave, and now that I no longer have The Chronicle I feel completely disorientated, but I try to convince myself that it’s just a question of changing my habits and that sooner or later that constant feeling of having lost everything will go away.
“Sam…”
“What is it?”
“Are you dating that guy now?” she says, trying to disguise her nosiness as a casual question.
“Who? Al?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Something like that.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s not from San Francisco and he’s only here at the moment for the competition, so I don’t know what’ll happen when it’s all over.”
“Have you tried asking him?”
“That seems a little premature.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” she agrees, draining her Bud. “You know,” she laughs, “when you told me you had passed the selections I almost fell out of my chair.”
“I can believe it.”
“That photo has done the rounds of the whole newsroom. You could have told me, though…” she concludes, reprovingly.
“You’re right,” I nod apologetically. “I just… I couldn’t.”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs. “Hey, look at this! ‘Seeking private masseuse for weekends. Maximum discretion’ – it’s perfect!” She slaps the newspaper with her hand euphorically.
“Wow, yeah!” I say, playing along. “My secret dream! How did you know?”
“Hey, if you’re not going to go for it, I am!”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Sure I would. You’re about to become a millionaire model, let us poor mortals have our pathetic little pleasures!”
The evening goes on like that, more or less – stupid kidding around and talking about life in the office. And even if it doesn’t really help me solve my problems or find a job, at least it puts a smile back on my face. At midnight, though, we say goodbye: Terry has to go, because she can’t run the risk of getting to work late tomorrow and I can barely keep my eyes open any more. I wait with her on the pavement until the taxi arrives and then wait for it to turn the corner before I go back inside. My folks are out tonight and the house is strangely silent. The TV is off and Samson is sleeping curled up in an armchair. I close the front door, remembering to leave the keys under the doormat, then climb the stairs on tiptoes so as not to disturb the quiet of the house and return to my bedroom without turning on the light. I’m so tired that I only just manage to put on my pyjamas and dive under the blankets. And like every night, before falling asleep I set the alarm clock on my phone. It’s an almost instinctive gesture, but tonight is different because I don’t actually need to wake up early tomorrow. I no longer have a job to wake up for, and when the thought occurs to me, I freeze and sit there thinking about it. If I don’t set it, it’s a bit like saying that I’m giving up. But if I do, I’m saying that this is just a transient phase that is soon going to lead me to some new, happier life. Though both options are valid, the winner is the third option, which states – and I’m inclined to believe it – that for the moment I’m just terribly tired and that a day off can only do me good, so I decide to put my smartphone on charge without worrying about the time. I take the charger out of the drawer and plug it in, but just as I’m putting it down next to the lamp, I realise that there are two unread messages. The first is from Al, wishing me good night. The second is…
