Holding Out for a Hero

by Victoria Van Tiem

  Adrian says something, the trouble twins giggle, then he turns to me. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Lots,’ I say, and smile. I’ll need it. Happy juice is essential if I’m to survive the night.

  ‘Coming right up.’ And he’s off, stopping every few feet to flirt with . . . well, those are men, and now I’m confused all over again.

  Forget it. This is already a complete catastrophe. Moving from the flow of traffic, I whip out my phone and text Dora.

  Help, at Cielo’s! Princess has twinkle toes. Mine are MC Hammer. He’s going to have broken ones!

  Actually, I’ve never been able to do Hammer’s fancy footwork. Whenever I try, I look like I’m in seizure. I do own some drop trousers, though, which would have been more comfortable than this too-tight shirtdress thing. I should’ve just listened to Jas and gone as myself. Instead, I’m the creation of Dora Finnstein. My phone buzzes in my hand.

  What? DO NOT HAMMER! I repeat, It’s NOT Hammer time. Just bob and shuffle.

  Bob and shuffle? ‘What the blazes is that?’ I ask no one. Maybe I should ask someone. Looking around, I study the moves and try to inconspicuously copy in mini-version. OK, lots of bum shaking. I can do that. Shake, shake, shake. Now, lift the hands, wiggle down and repeat.

  There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to this, though. I half-smile to a man who’s glanced my way. Maybe I shouldn’t practise. Where’s Adrian with that drink? I’m trying to think joyful thoughts. Be positive. Make an effort. Blah blah blah.

  I turn, scanning the mob and – no way. He’s with Booblicious, a drink in each hand, and he’s tearing up the dance floor. Well, if you can call what they’re doing dancing – the girl’s basically mauling him. So is that guy. Really confused.

  OK, Libbs. I’m doing homework for Dr P., and more importantly, I need that damn drink. I undo the top three buttons of my shirtdress, shake the girls and start bobbing my head to get the beat.

  I’m going in. Lucky gold star for me. And move it, lady, ’cause I’m coming through.

  The lights flash in sporadic bursts as I hobble-strut towards him, confidently, on fire. Look out. Adrian smiles. I don’t. I take my drink from his hand, tip it back and it’s going, going, gone. And then I finish his while I’m at it.

  ‘Whoa,’ I say loudly with a head-shake, handing him back the empty glasses. I stab a challenging glare to the date thief and the hairy guy, then start to get my groove on. Shake-shake-shake, hands up, wiggle down and repeat.

  Boobs moves along Adrian’s body, an arm on either side. She shimmies down to a squat, throwing her head wildly back and forth, creating a crazy whip effect. I snort a breath. You can’t out-Devo me, cupcake.

  I punch my arms round Adrian from the other side and go low, almost hitting her while she comes back up. How low can I go? Watch me. Ha! I’m practically on the floor.

  I am on the floor.

  I can’t get up, Hairy Guy’s too close. I reach and grab his arm with a yank, almost pulling him down with me.

  I’m up. I’m on. This is how it’s done. I clasp my hands and jut them out, only to wind them back. My hips work in tandem. Say hello to the cabbage patch. Oh, that’s right. I bite my lip and crank faster, forcing Boobs back, back, back and away from my date.

  I twist my left foot, then the right, jump and turn towards Adrian, who smiles. It’s the safety dance. Nothing safe about it as I flounce about with wide, wild arms. I almost knock Hairy Guy over again.

  Boobs tries to move round me, but I’m not done. My hand jabs forward in a stop motion, the other cups behind my head and slowly rotates with a stop-start hip-shake, only to speed it up. Oh! She’s been hosed with the sprinkler!

  Adrian laughs . . . Time to bring my victory home with the running man . . . that’s right, can’t catch me, I follow it with some pop and lock and . . . stand back . . . it’s Michael Jackson’s side slide. Ta-dah!

  Adrian’s cheering sets off a small bit of applause. I smile, quite proud of myself and give a see-ya nod to my competition. Gold stars all round.

  Adrian shouts into my ear, ‘That was wicked! And here I thought I was the one with the moves! Another drink?’ He holds up the empty glasses.

  Like he has to ask. I strut past the defeated dancing duo to follow my prize towards the bar, feeling vindicated, on top of the world, out of breath. I think I pulled something. Really, my side hurts and my left knee is throbbing.

  ‘Tequila slammers,’ Adrian calls to the bartender as we sidle up and claim some stools.

  Within a few minutes we each have small glasses of yellow in front of us. ‘What’s in it?’ I ask, leaning over to smell.

  ‘It’s just lemonade and Tequila – ready?’ He lifts his, and we tap glasses. ‘Cheers.’ And it’s down. Then another. And another.

  Whoa.

  I flutter-blink to get focus. We didn’t eat anything. Is this a new dating trend? No dinner out? ‘So, Adrian, ever been married?’ Look at me making small talk, being social, trying to figure out his gender.

  ‘Sure. Been divorced for about three years now, you?’

  ‘Me? Oh, yeah, of course. Rupert. Ruuu-pert. Charming man, sweet like Andrew McCarthy, you know, from Pretty in Pink? He had the same squinty eyes and fake hair. You did know Andrew wore a wig in the last scene, right?’

  Adrian’s brows pull down. I take that to mean, no I didn’t know and please continue, so I do.

  ‘Yeah, I guess they had to reshoot the ending, the audience wanted Molly Ringwald’s character to end up with him instead of the Duckman, complete and utter crap if you ask me, but anyway – Andrew had shaved his head for a play, so he had to wear a really bad wig, like my Rupert. Unfortunately, all he did was play video games.’

  ‘Andrew McCarthy?’

  ‘No, Rupert, Ruuu-pert, and I swear, he was completely useless. Then he lost his thumbs—’

  ‘What?’ Adrian’s head snaps so he’s looking directly at me. ‘He lost his thumbs?’

  I meant to say lost the use of his thumbs because of the gaming, but whatever, I go with it. ‘Horrid accident.’ I almost laugh. ‘What’s your ex’s name?’

  ‘Terry.’

  That’s helpful. ‘Kids?’

  Adrian leans closer. His guyliner has smudged some, but actually looks better, creating a dramatic smoky Adam Ant eye. ‘Two, how about you?’

  ‘Nope. Rupert had . . .’ My eyes drop to his crotch. ‘Well, like I said, horrid accident.’

  His eyes pinch. ‘Oh, oh.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, and finish off my drink. I’m not sure this is what everyone had in mind, but I am trying. ‘I have all my parts, though.’ I flash the thumbs up and snort-laugh.

  In my thirty-two years, I have learned one thing for certain: I am not a sexy drunk. You know how women in the movies drink and get all sultry and flirty, wildly losing their inhibitions to have steamy one-night-stand sex?

  Not me. Not once. Definitely not now.

  I become a comedian, and I’m usually the only one laughing at my useless jokes. But let me tell you, I think I’m hilarious. In fact, I can’t stop laughing now.

  Adrian looks confused. ‘Wanna dance?’

  I flash him another thumbs up.

  I’ve no idea where Adrian is, or how long I’ve been dancing. Everything blinks on and off. The guy I’m dancing with is facing me, now he’s backwards. Trippy. He’s back. ‘Hi!’ I laugh, and spin round and round. I’ve no idea what moves these are, but I’m . . . oh shit, I’m dizzy. Not only am I earning gold stars, I’m seeing them.

  Staggering from the dance floor, I try to locate my so-called Princess date. Time to go, Cinderella. Maybe I should call my own coach, ’cause it’s way after midnight. I look to the corners, trying to see over people’s heads for the washroom. There. I’m off, weaving through – OK, more like into people. ‘Hi,’ I say, and flash the thumbs up again . . . OK. Right.

  There’s a line but I walk right past it, a hand up to silence the protests. When a girl has to go, she has to go.
And I need to go . . . home, so I need a quiet place to call a cab. Reaching in my bag for my phone, I notice my wallet is MIA. How do I not have my wallet? I smack my forehead. I switched bags. I click through my phone’s favourites, deciding who to call.

  Dora? No, I don’t want her to know I lost Adrian, and Dean wouldn’t let her drive anyway. Can’t call Finn, he’d never let me hear the end of it. Crap, what if the princess left me? That’s embarrassing. No, I ditched him. I’m the original Dancing Queen. At least, Rupert always said so.

  Jasper.

  At Cielo’s, snockered. Ditched date guy who is maybe not a guy. Need ride. No cash for cab.

  I let my arm fall, still holding the phone, then lift to add . . .

  Am also Hungry Like the Wolf. Feed me?

  Outside the club, I dance while waiting for Jasper. In fact I’m singing ‘Dancing With Myself’, ’cause that’s what I’m doing. A couple of guys out to have a smoke cheer me on. I give them all thumbs up.

  It actually feels good out here. The brisk night air fills my lungs with every belted note. I wobble, stepping too near the curb, and almost stumble over.

  ‘Libby. Libbs, hey . . .’ It’s Jasper. His hands are on my back to hold me upright.

  I stop mid-note and turn, causing my adoring fans to boo.

  ‘Yeah, all right, show’s over.’ He looks back at me. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I forgot my wallet ’cause I switched bags . . . so I need a ride.’

  ‘Come on, and yeah, I got that from the string of non-stop car song titles you texted. Billy Ocean, “Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car”, Prince—’

  ‘“Little Red Corvette”, oh who who . . .’ I can’t remember any other lines, so I sing it again, then somehow morph it into ‘I Would Die for You’, complete with hand motions.

  Jasper opens his car door for me and I fall into the passenger seat. He leans over to help me with my belt, because I’m all thumbs. Oh God, now I’m in a fit of laughter. He can’t get the belt fastened.

  He’s super-close, and – ‘You smell –’ I sniff loudly, never really coming to a definitive conclusion of how to finish the statement. Then it’s just awkward because I paused too long, which I think is funny. ‘I just said you smelled.’ I’m now in hysterics, folded over.

  Once buckled, he closes my door, walks round and cranks the ignition. ‘You good?’

  ‘You smell good. That’s what I meant to, yeah . . .’ I let my head hit the seat back, and flash another thumbs up.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Talking in Your Sleep’

  The Romantics, 1983

  Wide awake now

  ‘Ah,’ I say in a hoarse whisper while reaching for my head – my aching, bloated melon of a head. I cough to clear my throat, and roll over . . . whoa. Holy moly mother of pop, I’m rocking. So is the room. Am I on a boat? I blink, trying to bring everything into focus. I’m surrounded by a deep, murky blue. How much did I drink that I’m seeing – wait.

  The logic in this truth tries desperately to wiggle its way through my fog. Squeezing my eyes tight, I hold for a moment then re-open even wider . . . still blue. My bedroom walls are yellow. I blink and stretch my eyes wide, propping up on my elbow, but it sinks into the mattress.

  Oh my God, it’s a waterbed. Who has a waterbed any more? Why’d I get rid of mine?

  In a rush of panic, I sit up, causing a tidal wave. I look left and right: exposed brick on the far wall, orange guitar leaning in the corner, nightstand without a clock, window covered by black shades. My stomach churns. Where in blazes am I?

  Gathering the sheet tight to my chin, I slink back with a panicked heart. Is this Princess Adrian’s castle? Must remember. We were dancing, and then . . . I was dancing with someone else and there was that horrid hairy guy. Did I ditch Adrian, or am I at Adrian’s? Oh, please don’t let this be Hairy Guy’s place. Not good, Libby, not good at all.

  Scanning the room for clues, I try and decipher my next move. My heart stops. My shirtdress is draped over a chair. If that’s over there . . .

  Glancing down, I confirm I’m in my intimates. Which are mismatched and worse for wear. Charming.

  A buzz sounds from the other room, then footsteps. Oh no. Leaping up, I swipe my dress and . . . more footsteps. They’re getting closer!

  I dive back on the bed, but I’m on top of the covers. I kick to dig under, but can’t manage to – ugh. Using my legs like scissors, I grip the comforter and roll once then again, my dress still held to my chest.

  It’s silent. The only sound inside my blanket cocoon is my laboured breathing.

  ‘Libby?’

  My eyes pop wide in recognition. Nooooooo. No, no, no, it couldn’t be. Could it? ‘Jas?’ How am I here, like this? The memory hits me at once. I texted him. I seriously cannot hold my drink. I peek over the blanket. ‘Morning.’

  He laughs and sits beside me, causing me to semi-roll into him. He’s freshly showered. His hair hangs damp and is darkened to a deeper blonde. The scent of soap still clings to his skin. ‘As requested, in song I might add, I’m waking you up before I go-go.’ His smile spreads wide.

  I blink as a faint recollection of a strip Wham performance comes to mind. Whatever inhibitions I have were eased by alcohol and completely dismissed. I put the boom-boom into the room. I cringe. Oh God.

  ‘I brought you coffee, aspirin and a bit of tequila to burn off the bite.’ He motions to the nightstand where he placed them. ‘You OK? You were completely on the piss, never seen you that way.’

  ‘You’ve seen quite a bit now, haven’t you?’ I force a laugh and clear my throat. It’s gritty, like sandpaper.

  ‘Quite. You’re a wild one, Libby London.’ He tilts his head and quirks a tiny half-smile.

  My mind whirls with a hundred images of Jasper and me being, well, wild. Not that I remember anything, I’m only imagining. My cheeks now burn as if on fire.

  He pushes the hair from my face, then wipes under my eyes. Black smudge comes away on his fingertips. His denim-washed eyes hold my gaze, but after a beat, he breaks the connection. ‘You had a nightmare, I think,’ he says, glancing back. ‘Yeah, I woke up and you were thrashing about and mumbling.’

  ‘Mumbling?’ My stomach knots. ‘What’d I say?’

  ‘Something about Ollie.’

  My breath stills as I watch the tick in his jaw, waiting to see if he’ll say anything more.

  ‘You, um . . .’ He starts as if going in one direction, but pulls back and redirects. ‘I don’t know, you settled down after a minute and were out again.’

  I’m not sure I completely believe there isn’t more, but right now, half-awake, I’m happy to play along. ‘Sooooo . . .’ Yeah, this is awkward. I wrinkle my nose and wait. If I woke him, does that mean he was beside me? I blink, studying his face again for clues.

  His blue eyes narrow a fraction, as if he’s studying mine. I quirk a grin. I don’t want to smile, but the way he’s looking at me. God. It can’t be helped.

  ‘What?’ I ask, feigning innocence.

  ‘You’re wondering if we . . .’ His smile is slow, but flirty. ‘That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nooo.’

  ‘Ahhhh!’ He points to my pinked cheeks, the smile now epic.

  ‘Shut up, God.’

  He laughs. It’s warm and radiates from his chest. ‘You passed out, Libby. I slept on the couch.’

  My shoulders drop with a truncated sigh. ‘I knew that—’

  ‘But, ah, you did kiss me.’ Jas looks away, but then regards me with a sideways glance. ‘If you can call it a kiss.’ His expression is playful and spirited.

  Mine’s aghast. ‘What do you mean, I kissed you? I didn’t kiss you. I remember no such thing.’

  ‘Well . . .’ His lips quirk sideways. ‘It was more an attack, and just so you know, you missed.’ The rogue smile’s returned. ‘Yeah, think my chin’s bruised, actually.’ His hand rubs over his jaw.

  ‘Shut up.’ I smile. His widens. Yeah, he’s
completely messing with me. I think.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ He motions to the night table, where the coffee and shot are positioned, then stands. ‘Drink up, and feel free to stay as long as you want. I need to get to the store or we won’t open on time.’ He moves to the door, but stops in the frame. ‘Oh, I left the cab number on the counter with a few bills, but really, stay as long as you need. And Libby?’ His expression falls and becomes unreadable.

  My heart speeds up a little. Between the Wham striptease, missed kiss and talking in my sleep, I’m afraid of what else he’s going to say.

  ‘I’m glad you called me.’ He gives a thumbs up, smiles and disappears into the hall.

  I disappear under the blanket. God.

  I’m dressed and sipping lukewarm coffee in Jasper’s flat. His words echo in my scrambled mind. ‘I’m glad you called me.’ Glad? I was a mess, it was super-late and completely inconvenient, and yet at a moment’s notice he was there. But I knew he would be, didn’t I?

  That’s the thing about Jasper: I can count on him. Had I called Dora, she would’ve made a major fuss about the time and would’ve made me find Adrian to take me home. Ollie isn’t available, and Finn might have come, but he’d complain – or worse, make me stay so he could dance.

  But Jasper? Not only did I know he’d be there, but he completely looked after me. And he’s glad I called him. I snuggle deeper into his couch and let the feeling resonate. I’m afraid to move, on the chance I’ll lose it. Even though my head’s in a spin, the mental exhaustion I usually wear like an ratty old robe has been replaced with something else, something lighter, something almost like happy. I haven’t even thought of Pretty in Pink until right now.

  My phone rings beside me, and I debate whether I should answer. My eyes squeeze shut to hold the feeling just a second longer. But it could be the Criminal with news, or Finn with news, or . . . I blink them open, and reach over. ‘Hi, Dora.’ Bet she wants news.

  ‘You didn’t call me back. Adrian said you ditched him. What happened?’ She’s entirely too chipper for this time of – I’ve no idea what time it is.