“Come on! Come on!” Dorian’s voice rushed past me, as if I was zooming by on a roller coaster. The whole room was like that—one minute loud, as the roller coaster plummeted toward the populated ground, then whoosh! I went shooting into the silent sky and it all died away.
I saw Dorian jam my suit jacket between the couch and the window—“Nobody will take it,” he said, even though I had scarcely felt him undress me to begin with. He began to unbutton my shirt—fast, like we were running out of time. I let my head drop back and my jaw fall slack. A laugh escaped my throat. Dorian wrestled the shirt away, and the coolness of the air-conditioned room fell upon my chest. I felt a yank around my sleeves—evidently the buttons on my sleeves had stumped him—then another set of fingers was pressing down my bottom lip.
“Open up,” Kaija cooed into my ear, nudging the cold edge of a glass against my teeth. Champagne filled my mouth—I choked a little, laughing blindly, then let the bubbles spill down my throat while Dorian gave one last tug and stumbled away with my shirt. When I lifted my head, he had tied it around his head like a turban—“Look, Plum, I look like you.”
Bubbles trickled like sweet acid rain down the corners of my smiling mouth, dripping down my neck, filling my clavicle like an overflowing stream.
Dorian giggled into my face. “Are you happy?” he asked. He wrapped his arm around my neck and pressed our foreheads together, and I remembered thinking the first time I’d seen him after his return from Paris—across the nightclub, with a martini against my lips—that Dorian Belgraves was so far . . . that after he had left, he would always be so far.
Now he was all I could see. Everything about him was as I had remembered it: his lips, his strong hands, that incredible feeling of being somehow connected to him.
By this point, his shirt was off too. He glistened with champagne, froth running down the middle of his chest. We were both stripped down to our boxer briefs, and for the briefest second I wondered where my pants were, and my shoes, and how any of them had gone away. Dorian pulled me to the pool’s edge. We sat with our legs in the water for a minute, maybe ten. The temperature was cool: I was reminded of bygone summers, licking popsicles and standing in front of the open refrigerator door. Then I was inside. We were inside.
It was only a few of us in the beginning—me and Dorian and Kaija, while Plum complained about having nowhere dry enough to put her expensive clothes. More heads popped up around us like grapes. In the dark the sofa adjacent to the pool began to look like a cutting board, with discarded clothes piling up like fruit rinds—and in no time the pool was brimming with everyone from the pink-haired stylist to Plum, who had given up resisting and was gliding around in her cornucopian headpiece and a waterlogged white lace slip.
The topless burlesque dancer drifted with nymphean serenity in front of me. Behind her, a shout was heard from the sofa, as a pair of arms flailed over the water: the pool’s first casualty. He teetered—the surface of the pool surged as a swarm of bodies escaped from underneath his lunging shadow—then splash!, the air sparkled, and a rain-like pitter-patter descended over the crowd. Too late, the dancer shielded her painted face with a forearm. An upward surge of bubbles at the site of the collision produced a drenched head and a shout about “my fucking Gucci shirt, man!” Not a minute later, another shout rang out, and the perilous pile of clothes on the sofa tumbled inevitably into the water. The expensive mass bobbed on the surface, then began to sink as the garments unstuck amid the pressure of the pulsating jets.
A stranger’s face appeared before me. Too much champagne, combined with the mystery of their long, clinging hair, made their gender unclear: he or she came nearer, just two glassy eyes and a pair of searching lips. Bodies all around—the pool was too popular. In all the commotion, I had tried to keep my glasses dry, but now pressed them against my face and escaped with a deep breath in the only direction I could think of: downward.
Water lopped over my head. My hair floated. Sudden quiet, except for bubbles pouring apocalyptically out of holes in the wall. All around I saw stammering feet and clothing grazing like catfish along the murky bottom.
When I came back up for air I realized I was still holding my champagne flute. I pushed my hair out of my face and took a breath, gazing through the empty glass. I guided it bobbing along the surface, like a crystal buoy, then pulled it under by the stem; filled it with water; and dumped it out again.
It was a game Dorian might have liked too.
Dorian. Expecting to find him right behind me, I swirled around, only to find people I didn’t know at all. I tried to remember when I’d last seen him, but the only memory I had was of the male model with the square face, and this made me sad. I began phasing in and out of consciousness. The contents of my stomach bucked in the water. I felt like throwing up. The lights in the pool had started flashing now, and every time they came on I found myself peering up at a new face, each one dripping and cool and different from the last. As I drifted it was like a slideshow—the faces flashing one after the other, just darkness BEAUTIFUL FACE darkness BEAUTIFUL FACE darkness BEAUTIFUL FACE darkness BEAUTIFUL FACE darkness . . .
All the voices faded in and out, like before. Behind my ear I heard . . . just drink more, it’ll make the pain go away . . . then a creak! as the roller coaster of my own wavering cognition took off again, and I was up and down, and up and down again—soaring through the sky, and swooping down past all the never-ending voices . . . there are two kinds of girls, those that know they’re fucked and . . . whoooshhhhhhhhh silence in the sky, just birds chirping and . . . so I look over and he’s practically face-raping her, with his . . . clouds drifting coolly by, while the sun beams, and the . . . best part about it is I can talk shit to her, about her, at her . . . air is so perfect and still, and the people below look like . . . they’ve been chasing their liquor with wine, it’s disgusting, like . . . little ants, tittering over a peaceful hill, and . . . won’t you go with me to the bathroom . . . ?
The mention of the bathroom jolted me. I’d had a lot to drink.
I emerged from the water into a haze of bodies and manufactured fog—shivering, bumping into shadows.
Sticky floor. My shoes—where are my shoes? Actually, where are my—wow. Naked. I’m basically naked and everyone can see. Calm down, naked is all right—you’re young and reckless and bohemian, remember? Yes, but—is that broken glass? No, just ice. Is that Marc Jacobs? Is that Sofia Coppola? Is that George? I wonder what George is doing now. I hope George hates his life. I hate George. I shouldn’t hate anyone, but I do—I hate him, I hate him, I—definitely broken glass. That’s what I get for hating George. I don’t hate George, I don’t hate George—what am I doing right now? Dorian. Where is Dorian? I like Dorian. I love Dorian. Of course I love Dorian. And he loves me too, except he’s probably with that model, that cardboard-box model. I’m going to find Dorian. I’m going to find him and—Bathroom. Excuse me, where’s the bathroom? Hey—!
“Hey, where’s the bathroom?”
“That’s the line right there.”
My stomach made a full revolution inside me. I gazed at the floor and began to sway, my feet stumbling in front of me. “Excuse me,” I murmured at the floor. I pushed to the front of the line—some guy said, “Hey!” I knocked him out of the way and swung the door open. “Sorry,” I said, shouldering away somebody who was washing their hands. Seizing the mirror, I vomited all over the sink.
“COME ON,” DORIAN PRODDED.
I yawned, and swatted at him.
“Come on, you big baby, let’s go.”
“What’s happening?” I moaned.
“What’s happening is I’m trying to take off your shirt,” he said, in an exasperated tone that made it clear he had been trying to do this for quite some time. I opened my eyes; found myself faceup on the mattress in my apartment, with Dorian’s legs straddled on either side of me.
“Oh,” I said seriously, as it dawned on me: Dorian wanted to have sex. A bucket of cold water fe
ll through my body. I was suddenly quite awake. “I—” I thought briefly of Madeline, but I tipped her over in my head like a vase off a ledge. “Well, all right,” I said, and decided not to ask any questions. I couldn’t remember how we’d gotten to that point—had we kissed already? Had we done anything else? I struggled to lift myself, and my head swayed around in a circle.
“Finally,” he said. His face was illuminated by my bedside lamp, while behind him the four-foot loft ceiling was pressed directly above his head.
His warm hands under my shirt incited a rushed floundering of my limbs.
“Just—hold still,” he said, as I tried to squirm from under the wet fabric.
“Do I look okay?” I asked, self-conscious.
“What?” He tilted his head. “You look fine. Who cares?”
“I just—are you sure you wouldn’t rather—I don’t know, take a shower before?”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, stop it—”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m trying to undress you?”
“Well, isn’t that what’s happening?”
“Yeah, but—not like that.” He laughed and rolled his eyes again. “You’re all wet,” he said, shaking a clean white shirt in my face. “I’m just trying to change your shirt.”
A mist of disappointment sizzled over me. I frowned. “Oh.” I slumped back on the mattress and limply crossed my hands over my wet chest.
He laughed outright again.
“Go ahead, laugh at me then,” I said. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Oh babe, don’t be like that—it’s okay—I just—”
“No, get off if you’re going to just laugh at me,” I said, pushing his thighs from around my body.
“I’m not laughing at you—I just—come on, let me change your shirt!” He tried to look serious, but now that he’d started laughing, he couldn’t stop. “Okay, fine, I’m not laughing, I’m not laughing. Sit up.”
“No.” I pouted.
“Sit up, you big baby,” he nudged. “You’re going to get sick tonight and then I’m going to have to do everything at work.”
“Don’t you want to sleep with me?” I moaned.
He laughed. “Well, yeah, and that’s exactly what I plan to do, sleep next to you, as soon as I get you out of this shirt, now come ooonnnnn, babe, I’m exhausted.”
I rolled my eyes and barked, “Go away,” and tried to tug my sheets from under his blokeish knees.
“All right, babe, seriously, I’m not laughing—you think I don’t know you? Remember that water-gun fight we had on the Davenport lawn?—you woke up in a puddle on Madeline’s floor and were sick for two weeks, now—”
“Yes, that was over a year ago, before you left us,” I retorted, and gave the blanket a yank.
“Come on, that has nothing to do with anything. Why would you bring that up now?”
“Why shouldn’t I? You never do,” I mumbled. “You just pretend like it never happened, like—”
A knock against the doorframe. “What’s going on?” came a familiar voice.
I turned my face to see Madeline standing on the loft ladder, blinking for the first time at my room. “Gosh, your apartment is small,” she said, and poked her golden head in.
“What are you—?” I began.
“Dorian said you were sick,” Madeline explained, and crawled inside. She smiled and reached into a plastic bag she had brought. “Here—I got you some Pellegrino, and some saltine crackers—and your favorite!” She held up a glass bottle of grape soda, and then swooped in. “Hi,” she said, and kissed Dorian hello. With a hand on his back, she knelt beside me, and ran her fingers through my damp hair.
I frowned, and escaped her touch with a grimace.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Don’t take it personally,” Dorian muttered. “He’s being . . .”
I flipped over and dug my head into the pillow with a muffled shout. “Just—give me my blanket!”
Dorian lifted his knee and threw the blanket in a heap on my head. “Take the fucking blanket then. Fine. Do you want me to leave?”
“Stop it,” Madeline intervened. “That’s not necessary.” She wrapped her hands around his forearm and held him there in place.
I remained silent, and covered my head.
Dorian tore his arm away from Madeline’s grasp and gave me a prod. “I said, do you want me to leave?” he demanded.
A clicking sound, as Madeline opened her mouth to protest—then silence, and the hum of the fridge below us.
“No,” I said. “I never wanted you to leave.”
Dorian swallowed. “Get up and let me change your shirt, please.”
Shifting, I pushed the blankets away and sat up.
“Thank you,” he said, and started to unpeel me. As the shirt came up I covered my skinny chest with one arm, with an embarrassed glance at Madeline, who had calmly arranged the crackers and bottled drinks by the lamp and was now folding up the plastic bag beneath her arm.
I took a deep breath. Dorian’s breath smelled like champagne, mixed with gin and tonic. He took my wet shirt and draped it over the corner of the mattress, and I watched his muscles ripple as—
I sneezed.
“See?” He pointed. “I knew it. I knew you were going to get sick.”
I sneezed again. Madeline reached into her purse, and handed me a tissue.
“What did I tell you?” Dorian went on, “you always—”
I tossed the crumpled tissue in his obnoxious face. “Shut up.”
“Lift your arms.”
I felt the cool, clean cotton drift over me.
“There,” he sighed. “That only took twenty minutes.”
Madeline came around from behind me and kissed my neck, her perfume enveloping me. “My boys, my sweet boys,” she smiled. She wrapped her arm around my waist and felt for my hand, while her other hand extended to Dorian. “Just like it used to be.”
“That boy—the male model,” I said, rubbing my eye. “You didn’t really like him, did you?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Dorian explained to Madeline. “He’s just—”
“I know.” Taking her hands back, she tilted her head and removed the backing from her pearl earring.
“Don’t pretend you don’t remember,” I whined. “That model. The male model. His face was like—a square, a horrible, ugly square.” I looked at my hands on my lap as Dorian began to lay me down. “I mean, I guess it’s fine if you like that sort of thing, but—”
Cradling my head in his hand, he lowered me onto the pillow, his face suspended over mine like a chandelier. “Just get to bed, babe.”
I implored him one last time, “Are you sure you don’t want to at least kiss me? Because if you wanted to, I promise I—”
“I’m sure.”
“How about your shirt?” I asked, reaching out to unbutton it. “You’re all wet, and—you know.” It hung down like a piece of cotton chainmail, reeking of chlorine. I got one button, two buttons, and was starting to see down his incredible chest when he pinned my hand back against the mattress.
“Hold on now,” he said. The wet shirt shuddered. “I can do it myself. Just—you get to bed.”
“Well,” Madeline laughed, “I guess this is what I get for missing a night out with the boys.” She laid down her earrings onto the base of the lamp with a soft clink, and stripped off her silk blouse.
I was tugging at Dorian’s shirt now, trying to tear it off him, like in the movies.
He took my other hand and pinned it to the mattress too, so that his slick, half-dressed body was suspended above me, wet shirt swinging. I floundered a little to free myself, then relaxed and blinked up at him.
“Listen to me, babe—you are extremely drunk,” he said. “You’re going to wake up tomorrow, and everything’s going to be all right. You have to trust me. There’s water right there if you need some, and we’ll be here the whole time, okay?”
<
br /> I licked my lips and gazed up at his mouth.
“Okay?” He shook me by both wrists with his hands. The mattress creak-creaked, and a diamond of sweat, or maybe pool water, fell from his hair onto my forehead. I flinched at the drop of cold, shuddering as it dripped into my eye.
“Sorry,” he said, wiping it off with his thumb.
Before he could protest, I thrust my face up to his unsuspecting mouth and kissed him.
I held it as long as I dared—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, eyes shut, hanging from his lips like a child from a monkey bar. He breathed on my face and I pulled back, a slow string of saliva forming like a glistening clothesline between us, before—pop! just like a soap bubble—it disappeared, and all that was left was a shiny bead on Dorian’s bottom lip.
The whole thing was fast—like stealing another kid’s ice-cream cone, and running off.
Dorian blinked a couple of times, stunned. He opened his mouth, as though conflicted between a breath and an utterance, but before he could decide I slipped out from under his grasp. I turned over, covered myself with my blanket, and giggled.
I could hear him shift his weight, trying to think of something.
“That’s your fault,” he said to Madeline finally. “You’re the one who always encouraged—”
“Oh, stop it,” she snapped. “Who cares?”
I peeked out from under the covers as he glowered at her meaningfully. Madeline rolled her eyes and slipped out of her skirt, which crumbled into a pleated jacquard mound. “Don’t be so childish,” she told Dorian. She adjusted her burgundy lace bra, then sliding into bed in front of me, turned her head to kiss my cheek.
“Hold me,” she said. I was in a haze, the taste of Dorian’s lips filling me like ether.
Madeline pressed her back against me, and I dangled my arm around her tiny waist. She smiled through a satisfied sigh as she curled up her legs, squeezing my hand against her cool, naked stomach. “Come on now,” she whined at Dorian, “turn off the light and get in.”
An Innocent Fashion Page 31
