by Celia Hayes
“Dave…” and I open it with trembling fingers.
Sam, please, I have to talk to you. You’re making a huge mistake. Call me.
And I… For a moment I was almost hoping that… Why do I fall for it every time?
“Goodbye, Dave.”
I switch off everything: the light, the phone, my heart.
Tomorrow I’m changing my life, I’m changing my job – but above all, I’m changing my phone number.
Chapter 29
Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
“Come on, Sam, pick up…” but the phone keeps ringing until the voicemail kicks in. “Fine, then. Do whatever the hell you want!” And, no longer having any reason to keep staring at the screen, a frustrated Dave throws his phone violently to the other side of the couch. Who knows, maybe it’s just tiredness. Not enough sleep. He’s late for work. After the last meeting, he’d asked Jane to give him a hand, but she couldn’t. Sorry, Dave, I’ve got an appointment… She must have said something like that. It’s nine o’clock. And he couldn’t expect her to stay on at that time, could he? Don’t worry, it’s not a problem. So he’d let her go. And that was exactly what Jane had been waiting for. She gathered her stuff and fled the office, and in the meantime, Dave, without thinking about it, had found himself standing in front of Sam’s desk only to… find it empty. No trace of her except for a few of her things. A photo of a cat, a blue cup and a toy cable car next to the keyboard. Anything else? No, except for a couple of books on the shelves and a forgotten umbrella in the corner behind the filing cabinet. Things of no importance.
End result? Dave went back to his office and didn’t come out until he had sent the last email. And as distracted as he was, he’d found it practically impossible to concentrate. At first he thought it would only take him a couple of hours, but instead… instead he had ended up leaving Union Square at half past eleven.
Too tired to go out and too early to go to bed, he went back to Nob Hill, turned on the TV, and watched an old film hoping he wouldn’t think about her, and for a while it worked, but at midnight he gave in. He couldn’t take it any more and he messaged her. He could have called her, but he didn’t want to run the risk of her hanging up on him. And anyway, it was late… he didn’t want to scare her. He’d thought it was more appropriate to send her a message. Less direct. A bit more discreet. After all, if Sam wanted to speak to him, she could always call him.
But apparently, Sam didn’t want to…
“Because they’re all the same, aren’t they? They look innocent, harmless. They potter about in their jogging pants always saying yes, but it’s a trap! You drop your guard for an instant – for one goddamn moment – you get distracted, and they…” He punches his pillow and finds himself staring at Onky, standing on the bedside table with a wooden rod and several feet of gauze holding his glued on genitals in place. “You know all this very well though, because look what she did to you,” he says, caressing the statuette gently. He’s tried to put poor Onky back together, but if he has to be honest, Onky isn’t looking so great. The glue he bought at the hardware store wasn’t much use: he covered the edges with it and a few hours later it changed colour, going an unhealthy looking yellow. Brian suggested calling a restorer, but to Dave, six hundred dollars seemed a little too much, so he’d tried to do it by himself. Yeah… nice going, Dave! And now God knows how much the restorer will charge him. Because if before they’d just have had to stick them back on, now they’re going to have to pull the damn things off first.
Instinctively, Dave touches himself down there, a shiver of cold dread running up his spine at the thought.
“Yeah, you’re in a bad way, old buddy. A real bad way,” he murmurs, putting Onky back on the table. “Do you understand that I’m right about this?” And when he sees him standing there by the lamp, looking so defenceless, he asks him, “What did you ever do to her, huh? You minded your own business, you enjoyed life without bothering anyone. Then she arrives, picks you up, turns you upside down. ‘Hey, this is cute, what is it?’” he mimics and adds sarcastically. “As if she didn’t know… And she does all that, and then you, who all things considered are one of the good guys, run to her to try and help her. Because you don’t like seeing her struggling, right? And the next moment you find yourself on the floor: bam!” He claps his hands together. “Lying there on the carpet…” he murmurs, peering at the resin impregnated gauze. “With…” and in the end he turns away, uncertain as to what exactly he’s talking about. “Ah, the hell with her!”
He throws himself against the back of the couch and checks his phone to make sure she hasn’t answered, but once again there’s nothing. Sam is still ignoring him.
“Ah, who cares!” he says with a shrug. “Let her do what she likes, just like she always has. Just like they all do. She wants to lose her job? Fine! In a couple of weeks she’ll realise that she’s screwed up big time and come crawling back. And then we’ll see if she doesn’t answer her phone. Then we’ll see…” He smiles to himself, imagining the scene. “Yeah, then we’ll really see,” and as he checks his iPhone again, he realises that it’s past one and tomorrow morning he has to be in the office for eight. He can’t afford to get there late, not tomorrow. Even if he doesn’t want to, even if he isn’t sleepy, it would be a good idea to go to bed. It’s a tough decision, sure, but common sense prevails, and so Dave decides to stop thinking about things for a while and heads off to his bedroom, taking with him a few beers, his iPhone and a couple of painkillers. Like every night, before he closes his eyes he takes a look at the phone, but this time only to turn it off.
To Sam Preston: Sam…
delete?
Yup.
Click
Chapter 30
Induced Personality Alteration
“And remember – look into the camera.”
“And don’t trip over the cables.”
“And smile!”
“But not too much.”
“I’d like to thank the jury for allowing me to get this far. I’ve always had a very normal life,” I recite, my eyes closed, as Lou tells the make-up artist how to apply my blusher.
“Okay, but with more emotion. More feeling,” says Tim, thinking aloud.
“We could spread a rumour that they messed up her botox,” suggests Lou.
“Oh…” I wilt.
“Don’t listen to him, he’s always got to make everything into a disaster. It’s fine, believe me, it’s fine. It just needs a touch more naturalness. The public needs spontaneity, otherwise they can’t identify with you.” Unlike Lou, Tim takes a less drastic approach, but I know he’s thinking exactly the same thing: I’m hopeless. I’m just no good at this stuff, I’ve never spoken in public in my life. In school drama classes, they always made me play a rock or something!
“I’d like to thank the jury for allowing me to get this far,” I say, trying again and staring at my reflection in the mirror. “I’ve always had a very normal life. I have a normal job, I do normal things…”
“Hey, you. You can’t come in here. Take all that stuff away – wardrobe is supposed to go to the other room,” shouts Tim suddenly at a bellboy who has appeared in front of him holding a box in his arms. I turn round too, and that moment of distraction is all it takes for me to forget everything. My mind’s a complete blank. And after I spent all night repeating that stupid speech to myself!
“It’s getting even worse, if that’s actually possible,” shouts Lou, adding his voice to the racket backstage. Believe me, you’ve never known real chaos until you have been behind the scenes of a TV show at least once, it’s an absolute nightmare! They split us into three groups, putting us in three different rooms full of make-up stations and in order of our scheduled appearance. Mirrors, steel hangers with our dresses on them, lights, cables, technical staff, make-up artists, hair stylists. A frantic coming and going of dozens of panicky girls trying on evening dresses, stockings and wigs. And in the background, the loudspeaker announcements, which
from time to time call one of us onto the stage or – more rarely – call one of the staff to the director’s booth. And the most frightening part is that it’s all so fast and you can’t afford to screw it up because we’re going out live nationwide.
“Lou, I can’t do it. I’m not going to make it”. I throw myself down in a chair, followed by Phoebe, the make-up artist with her deadly sable brush full of face powder. “Wai… wait a minute,” I say, trying to stop her as she dabs me all over with it.
“Sam, we don’t have time so keep still and shut your mouth!” orders Lou. “Phoebe, darling,” he says, suddenly adorable again, his hands joined in prayer and a Bambi-like expression on his face. “I’d love it if she were just a little less shiny here,” he says, pointing to my cheekbones. “Powder it. Right now!”
“Is it too late for me to pull out? Is it?”
“Yeah. You can’t pull out now. Don’t panic,” he says, as though it was that easy! He’s not the one going out there in front of the whole world. “It’s all very straightforward, you’re blowing things up out of all proportion for no reason – and if you keep blowing things up out of all proportion,” he puffs out his cheeks, “you might just explode!” Suddenly his shoulders slump and he shakes his head. “This is no good. No good at all.”
“You’re telling me…”
“Sam, we have to stay focused on the goal. Go over your speech again, and this time,” pleads Lou, his eyes raised to the heavens, “try and say it as though you actually believe it for once.”
“But I don’t believe it!”
“Of course you do.”
“No I don’t – listen to this.” I recite a couple of lines, trying not to disturb Phoebe’s attempts to cover up my shiny cheekbones. “I’ve always dreamed of feeling free to be myself.”
“So? Isn’t that what we all dream of?”
“No, because I’ve never wanted to be myself, I’ve always wanted to be like one of those gorgeous models in the Victoria’s Secret ads.”
“Oh God, how awful!” He goes white. “All those tacky plastic feathers…” He covers his face with his hands. “I don’t know how they do it – I loathe feathers.”
“He loathes feathers,” whispers Tim, imitating Lou’s horrified expression.
“Lou, all this has nothing to do with plastic feathers!”
“Exactly, especially because that’s not the spirit of this contest! Beautiful Curvy is a show with a very high budget – if we want feathers, we can afford the real thing!”
“Right, okay… listen to this bit,” I say, ignoring him and going on to the second line. “I decided to sign up for the contest because I think that all women can identify with me, from the housewife to the student. Real, normal people who are beautiful in their simplicity.”
“And what’s the matter with that?”
“Just for starters, I didn’t decide to sign up for the contest!”
“Pfff – details…”
“And the idea that there are people out there who want to identify with me freaks me out a little.”
“Sam…” he sighs.
“No, I’m serious, Lou. I’m not even able to convince the washing machine to do the prewash, how the hell can I convince thousands of people to look to me for inspiration?”
“Sam, listen…” he says, drumming his fingers nervously on the make-up station.
“Two minutes and you’re on!” shouts a floor manager, walking by.
“Okay, we’ll talk about it later. You’re on in two minutes, let’s go.” He gestures to me to get going, and starts pulling me out of the chair.
“No, Lou, no!” I’m really starting to panic.
“Quit worrying!”
“I can’t!”
“It’ll be fine, just trust me and do what I told you.”
“Come on, Lou, don’t waste your breath. You did what you could, but you bet on the wrong horse,” cuts in Mary Blade Simpson who appears out of nowhere on her eight inch heels, with perfect hair and a murderous look in her eye. I’ve never spoken to him about her, but I know that there’s bad blood between the two of them. An old story, other contests, stuff no one wants to talk about. The only thing I know is that she is preparing Angelina Johnson, one of the favourites according to the press. It’s not the first time she’s taken part in one of these: she was a model herself for years and is a well-known face in the advertising industry. This isn’t a contest, it’s work and not a single detail is left to chance. You can tell from the unbelievable amount of clothes in her wardrobe and the number of people around her. Angelina doesn’t have an image consultant like me – she has a team. A whole team. Six people. Starting with the personal trainer.
“Take your claws somewhere else, Mary,” says Lou threateningly, giving her a nasty look. “We’ve got serious stuff to do.”
“And you only remembered it two minutes ago, Lou?” she replies scathingly.
Mary’s not exactly what you’d call diplomatic – more a concentration of egocentrism, vanity, and hatred of everyone else. And you can tell right away. She’s tall, buff, her hair pulled back tight, always dressed perfectly in expensive clothes. She underlines her professionalism with her collection of scarves. Lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner – everything is perfect. Too perfect. She looks like something out of an advert. Made of plastic and always in the right pose, ready for her close up. She’s not Mary Blade, she’s the brochure about Mary Blade: a name, a brand. Maybe that’s how you become a successful person – by giving up a bit of yourself in exchange for a bit of Barbie and a pinch of Tim Burton.
“Listen…” Lou yells at her in exasperation, but Mary is too busy watching the arrival of her latest protégé to pay him any attention. Angelina.
“Oh, there you are,” Mary says, going over to her. “Are you ready?” She sounds too concerned to actually be genuine. It’s a shame for Angelina – unlike Mary, she seems like a pretty cool girl: blonde hair, sweet face, a little frightened looking. I’d have liked to get to know her better, but apparently all the contestants have to hate each other, otherwise there won’t be the necessary competitive atmosphere. We’re not allowed to socialise, only to look daggers at each other and make the odd crack about our respective physical defects. The rest of the time we walk around each other pretending to be the only human beings in the building.
“Yes, I’m ready,” answers Angelina with a smile. What the hell is someone so cute doing with that witch, I can’t help thinking to myself.
“Great,” murmurs Mary, adjusting a lock of Angelina’s hair. “Let’s go, we’ve wasted enough time – the cameras are waiting for us.” And she sweeps away like a real celebrity.
“And then you wonder why her husband left her for a Brazilian waitress?”
“Lou!” I cry, “That’s a really horrible thing to say!”
“Hey, whose side are you on?”
“Not on the side of a cheating husband, that’s for sure.”
“I wouldn’t call it cheating, I’d call it a perfectly justifiable attempt at saving himself. Anyway, get moving, we’re really late!”
“Hold on,” says Tim, reappearing with a phone in his hands. “A call for Sam. It’s from The Chronicle.”
“No time, we’re about to go on. We don’t have time!” says Lou, walking off.
“Okay, forget I said anything,” Tim nods, before answering for me. “Who did you say was calling?” I hear him yell into the mouthpiece in a desperate attempt to be heard above the racket that surrounds us. “Mr Callaghan, I’m sorry, but Sam can’t come to the phone right now. Try calling her tonight on her cell phone. No. No, she really can’t. Yes, I understand that it’s important, but you’ll have to wait until the show is over.”
Oh god – was it Dave?
“Tim, wait…” I say, trying to stop him so he can explain what’s going on, but Lou pushes me forward.
“Sam, it’s late!”
“Okay, I heard you, I’m going! Try not to make me trip over,” I protest, but he reveal
s himself to be a heartless taskmaster who has no pity for my broken heart and doesn’t stop shoving me forward until we’ve reached the corridor that leads onto the stage.
Chapter 31
One Step Away from Yesterday, One Step Away from Tomorrow
“Okay, stop. Right there. Don’t move.” He keeps firing off orders at me while he checks everything, starting with my make-up.
“Lou…”
“Hmm?”
