by Roxie Noir
I laugh.
“You’ll learn your geography sooner or later,” I say. “We’re far enough from Point Dume that you shouldn’t be insulted.”
“If you say so,” he says.
There’s a break in the traffic and he turns left, down a smaller road, past some very expensive houses, to a classy-looking backlit sign that just says NORU in big gold letters, a valet parking stand next to it .
Clustered around, on the sidewalk, are about a dozen people with cameras around their necks, and they all turn as we pull up, peering into the car’s windows, already snapping pictures.
Panic suddenly wells inside me, bubbling up as I watch these people close in before the car even stops.
I knew this was coming, but I have this sudden sense of being surrounded, of eyes pinning me down as they scrutinize me, my second-hand purse, my drug store lipstick, my shoes from Target. Not to even mention the fact that we’re faking this whole relationship and I’m not even an actress, just some student who needs money.
I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
In the driver’s seat, Gavin looks out the window and sighs.
“Here we are at the circus, then,” he says, sounding resigned.
I don’t answer, because I’m staring past him at the paparazzi, so close they’re practically fogging up his car window.
What the hell have I done? I think, still frozen. Oh my God, I’m going to be in tabloids and on the internet and they’re going to post horrible, unflattering photos of me, they’ll probably say mean things and they’re going to know this is fake in three seconds flat—
“Marisol?” Gavin’s voice breaks through my crazed inner monologue. “You all right?”
I look at him and clear my throat.
“Yeah?” I say, though I couldn’t sound less convincing.
He reaches over and takes my hand in his, warm and calloused, and squeezes it.
“They’re bumblebees,” he says. “Buzzy and irritating but so long as you don’t try to fight them off, they’re harmless. Just smile and wave and it’ll be over in a flash.”
“Right,” I say, and take a deep breath. “Harmless.”
He gives my hand another squeeze.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I say, and Gavin lets me go.
He unlocks the doors and the valets, two men in deep red vests, open them. One offers me his hand and I take it, thanking him to the click click click of cameras, and I look up directly into a round, black lens.
The lens lowers, and there’s a frowning man behind it, his black hair pulled back.
“Who are you?” he asks.
I just smile and hope I look normal, not crazy.
Gavin walks around the front of his car, a knot of people with cameras following him, all shouting at once.
“Gavin! Are there any more Dirtshine shows planned?”
“Gavin! Does the new album have a title?”
“Are you still clean?”
“Is it true you assaulted your former best friend Liam?”
“Is he pressing charges?”
Click click click click.
He just smiles, holds up one hand, and keeps walking.
“Just trying to get to dinner,” he says, and then he’s at my side, one hand on my lower back, and I remember to move forward.
“Gavin, who’s the girl?” someone shouts.
He opens the big glass door to the restaurant and I step through, the frantic clicking cut off when it closes behind us, and for a moment, warm, fuzzy relief washes over me.
And then I look around.
This is the fanciest place I’ve ever been, and it’s fancy in a sleek, modern, California kind of way — lots of highly-polished surfaces and sharp vertical lines, the architecture wood and slate at right angles. One wall is sheer glass, and it’s facing the ocean, nothing but beach between the window and the water.
“Welcome to Noru,” says the very pretty, polished hostess as she looks Gavin up and down, clearly recognizing him. “If you’ll give me one minute I’ll be right back with you.”
“Not a problem,” Gavin says, putting his hand on my lower back again as she walks away quickly.
Then his voice is quieter, closer.
“You did great,” he says.
“I didn’t do anything,” I point out.
“Exactly,” he says. “It’s impossible to win, you can only draw.”
“Sorry for panicking,” I say. “I knew what to expect, I just... wasn’t expecting it.”
He chuckles quietly, his hand still around my hip. Like we’re an actual couple out for a very fancy dinner.
“You’re doing loads better than me already,” he says. “The first time someone tried to take my photo like that was after a show in London, and I was shitfaced and stoned. So naturally, I showed him my John Thomas and he snapped a picture of it.”
My face heats up just at the thought, and I laugh to cover it up.
I definitely imaged-searched Gavin. And I definitely didn’t see that one. I probably shouldn’t. Seems unprofessional.
“It is literally my job to be the respectable one here,” I point out.
“And you’re doing a bang-up job of it,” he says as the hostess walks back toward us, smile still plastered on her face. “Hardly even a flash of ankle.”
She steps in front of us, wearing massive fake eyelashes, which she bats at Gavin.
“I’m so sorry about the wait,” she says. “Right this way.”
We’re the ones who were half an hour late, I think, but I don’t say it out loud. I get the sense that apologizing is somehow déclassé.
Gavin’s hand on my back nudges me forward and I follow the woman past a room full of people to a table by the huge window, looking out over the ocean. He pulls my chair out for me, and I bite back a teasing comment about studying up on manners before we came.
There’s already sparkling water in an ice bucket on the table, and the hostess pours us both glasses before she leaves. I guess they don’t just know who he is, they know his entire back story as well.
“Cheers,” Gavin says, lifting his up, and I do the same. “To making it this far.”
“You know it’s bad luck to toast with something non-alcoholic, right?” I ask without thinking.
Gavin grins at me.
“Except for people in recovery, cheers!” I say hurriedly and too loud, lifting my glass off the table.
“So I tell you that I once drunkenly flashed my todger to a paparazzo, and next thing I know you’re trying to get me on the sauce,” Gavin says, his eyes dancing.
I turn scarlet, my face like the surface of the sun. Any possible response dries up in a sudden storm of nerves, and I’m left, staring at Gavin, practically gawping.
It feels like everyone in this restaurant is watching us, like I’m an exotic bug under a microscope, and they’re listening to Gavin tease me about wanting to see his penis.
Which I don’t. He’s sexy and charming and oddly sweet, but I’ve never even thought about his penis. Except when he mentioned it a few minutes ago.
Really. Never crossed my mind. Not for even a second.
Okay, maybe one.
“I’m just teasing, love,” he says, leaning slightly forward, and it breaks the spell of my awkwardness.
We clink our glasses together and take sips, but I can still feel everyone’s eyes on me. When I look around at the other tables, I’m almost certain everyone glances away just in time, murmuring to their dinner partners.
Probably wondering who the hell Gavin Lockwood is with and why she’s got a three-year-old purse and fake leather shoes, I think.
To make matters worse, almost everyone in here right now is white — there’s a black guy at a corner table and an Asian woman laughing along with a Caucasian man, but that’s it. I stick out like a short, brown, poor sore thumb in this sea of tall, well-dressed blondes.
“What sort of bad luck?” he asks.
I blink at
him for a moment, because I’ve got no idea what he’s talking about.
“The toast,” he says. “What sort of bad luck am I to expect now?”
“Oh, right,” I say, and look down at my place setting. “Just regular, I think?”
“It’s not something specialized, like seven years of shoddy cocktails or always getting to the subway platform as the train pulls away?” he asks.
My shoulders relax a little.
“You’ll break slightly more dishes than you would normally,” I say.
Gavin smiles. He puts his hand over mine. I realize I was twisting my napkin through my fingers, and I stop, his hand warm and solid and comforting.
“No one in this restaurant gives a shit that you’re here,” he says, his voice soft and a little raspy. “I promise they’re all far too busy hoping to get noticed themselves to think about who you are or what you’re doing.”
I can’t help but smile, shaking my head a little.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve never been on a very expensive date with a very famous person before. It’s kinda weird.”
“It’s weird as a frog in trousers riding a bicycle,” he says. “But you’re managing a bang-up job of it.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Someone steps forward silently and waits to be noticed. We notice him.
“Welcome to Noru,” he says. “My name is Aidan, and I’ll be your server. Would you like to hear the specials?”
Gavin doesn’t let go of my hand.
The waiter suggests the Chef’s Tasting Menu, so that’s what we both end up getting. I’m not exactly a sushi expert — it’s expensive — so anything that keeps me from having to figure out the difference between all the different fish is perfect as far as I’m concerned.
It also doesn’t take me long to remember that I’m not crazy about sushi. I don’t exactly dislike it, but something about the taste and the texture just doesn’t do much for me, and this is... creative sushi.
Creative meaning raw octopus tentacles that wiggle when the waiter pours soy sauce on them. Creative meaning fermented fish paste as a topping, which must be an acquired taste, and plates arranged with shrimp heads staring up at us beside the main dish.
“Do we eat these?” I ask Gavin, as quietly as I can.
He prods one with a chopstick.
“I’m baffled,” he admits.
There’s large caviar that explodes between my teeth with a strong, fishy taste I don’t enjoy. There’s fish liver doused in squid ink.
And finally, there’s the sea urchin. It looks kind of like a pale orange brain atop rice, and from the way it wiggles just slightly as the waiter puts it in front of us, I can tell I’m not going to be crazy about it.
“The final course,” the waiter intones. “Noru’s famous fresh-caught uni. Please enjoy.”
I don’t really want it, but not eating it seems incredibly rude. Gavin and I each take a piece and, after a pause, I put it into my mouth.
I was right.
It’s squishy, slightly slimy and somehow the tiniest bit gritty all at the same time. It tastes vaguely like the ocean, but the way it coats my tongue makes it overwhelming.
Plus, it’s squishy, very squishy, and did I mention squishy? It’s my least favorite texture.
I swallow, then quickly lift my glass to my lips, washing it down. Across the table, Gavin’s doing the same.
We lock eyes, still drinking, and he starts laughing. Then I start laughing, because we both just acted like children forced to eat brussels sprouts.
When we put our glasses down, he leans forward again, beckoning me in.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks, his voice low.
His face is only a few inches from mine, the closest he’s been all night, and my heart is thumping like a bass drum.
This is for show, I think, over and over again. It’s an act. You’re getting paid.
“Depends on what you’re going to tell me,” I answer.
“I don’t think I like uni,” he says. “And when Valerie booked this date, I didn’t realize it was for sushi, or I think I’d have requested something else.”
I’m trying hard not to laugh.
“I think you just spent a lot of money on a dinner you didn’t enjoy,” I tease. “Maybe look up the restaurant next time?”
“No, I spent money on food I didn’t enjoy,” he says, his eyes still sparkling at me. “It’s the best fake date I’ve ever been on.”
My stomach flip-flops, and I try to cover it up by taking another sip of water and sitting back in my seat.
“Have you been on many fake dates?” I ask.
“Just the one,” he admits.
“Then it had better be the best,” I tease. “Though by that logic it’s also the worst.”
“If you’re done talking yourself in circles, I’m trying to tell you I had a good time paying you to act as if you like me,” he says.
We lock eyes for a moment and a small, slight shiver runs through me.
I’m not sure it’s acting, I think.
“Thanks,” I say.
13
Gavin
I pay the bill without letting Marisol see it, because frankly, I feel a bit guilty signing away that much money on a single meal. Even though I’m flush now, it’s hard not to look at a restaurant bill in the mid-three-figures and think of how many weeks’ food budget it would have been a few years ago.
She wants to know, of course.
“What if I guess,” she says. “And you say higher or lower.”
“No,” I say, enclosing my credit card in the leather folder.
“How many numbers? Five? Six? Including decimal places,” she goes on, her eyes laughing.
I glance at the bill again.
“All right, it’s five, but that’s all you’re getting from me.”
“So it’s in the hundreds,” she says. “Over or under five hundred?”
The waiter comes by and I hand him the check along with my credit card. He thanks me and disappears.
“I could have sworn I just said I wasn’t telling you,” I say.
“Is the first numeral odd or even?”
I take a drink of water and say nothing.
“Okay, is it prime?”
“You think I’m going to know off the top of my head whether a number in the hundreds is prime?” I tease her. “I’m a musician, love, not a calculator.”
She laughs.
“I just meant the first numeral,” she says. “Those shouldn’t be beyond you, right?”
“It’s not prime,” I say.
She grins at me.
“Shite,” I say. “That’s it, no more questions. Why do you even want to know?”
“Because you don’t want to tell me,” she answers. “So the first numeral is two, four, six, eight, or nine, since one, three, five, and seven are all prime.”
The waiter returns and hands me the credit card receipt in the leather envelope. I stare into space a moment, calculating the tip.
“If you need help I can figure it,” she offers.
“I know what you’re doing and I’m not falling for it,” I say, and quickly write the tip, add the two together, write the total and sign it.
Then I put my hand flat on the leather folder containing the check, just in case, but she glances at the front door and looks somber again, nerves creeping back onto her face.
“You do exactly as before,” I tell her. “Smile, walk through, sit in the car.”
“I know,” she says. “It’s going to take some getting used to is all.”
I stand and offer her my hand, and she takes it, hers small and soft in mine, though she grips me back with surprising strength.
She’s just nervous, I remind myself. It’s not more than that.
The hostess, whose face might have been transformed into a permanent smile via plastic surgery, has the valet retrieve my car while we wait inside the restaurant, away from the paparazzi on the sidewalk. When I see my
Ferrari glide up, I thank her, squeeze Marisol’s hand, and open the door for her.
The vultures are right there, black camera lenses staring like massive, dead eyes. They all shout questions, and they’re all old hands at using my first name liberally, knowing how hard it is not to pay attention to that.
“Gavin, how’s recovery?”
“Gavin, did you have a good dinner?”
“Gavin, who’s this?”
We ignore them. A valet holds Marisol’s door open and I see her in, not leaving until the passenger door is closed behind her. The vultures keep shouting as I walk around the car, cameras a foot away from me, maybe less.
I’ve got the urge to shove them out of my face and hear that satisfying crunch of delicate equipment on asphalt, but I resist.
I tip the valet. I get in my car, already purring, and I close the door, turning to Marisol.
“Still doing aces,” I tell her.
She exhales, leaning her head back against the leather headrest, ignoring the cameras right outside the windows.
“Is it like this everywhere you go?” she asks incredulously.
I slip the car into gear and rev the engine. Paparazzi move out of the way, just barely.
“God, no, thank Christ,” I say. “Valerie had us come here because she knows it’s essentially an observation tank for celebrities. Most places I go there’s a few curious people with their phones out, if anything.”
I ease the car forward, quite careful of the men still taking photos, and drive the car down the street.
“That’s why they’ve got the valet stand out on the street,” I say. “Because the paparazzi are allowed on public property. They could easily move the valet stand into their parking lot and eliminate the entire song and dance, but then the restaurant wouldn’t get all the free publicity and celebrities would go elsewhere to be seen.”
“Oh,” she says, and she sounds relieved.
I come to a stop at the traffic light on the Pacific Coast Highway and wait, blinker on to head back into Los Angeles. I can’t say I particularly want to go home, but this is what we’ve agreed upon — one date, to Noru — and it’s already a little past ten.
As I wait, my stomach growls. Loudly.
