If I walk a bit faster this strange pain won’t hurt as much. One step in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. Elevator door opens. I enter. Deep breath in.
“Del? Are you OK? Do you have to pee?” Chelsea says running behind me.
Somehow my feet have taken me away from the elevator and into the bathroom, and I am now standing in front of a big smoky mirror. As much as I knew walking into that elevator, back down to the garage and into my smelly, creaky car would be the rational thing to do, my legs again had more input than I did. They felt that being in no way responsible was the right thing to do.
The nice Vietnamese lady seated in the corner hands me a towel as I splash cold water on my face. “What is going on?” she asks – Chelsea, not the Vietnamese lady.
“Let’s just get one more drink. Here, I have some eyeliner and mascara in my bag,” I say. I fish through my huge navy blue bag, definitely not the bag you take out when you’re planning on staying out. I could literally fit my Grandmother Cruz in it. “Oh, and look at this! My savior.”
“Your grandmother’s red lipstick. You can’t leave home without it. Let me have some,” she says, taking the tube from my hands. She puckers her lips to begin the application. “Didn’t we just have a lengthy discussion about why we shouldn’t stay out and how we need to be responsible and sensible?” She continues applying.
“Yes, we did. But it will only be for one drink and I don’t know why, but I can’t leave just yet. I just know if I do I will regret it, and I…”
“You don’t regret anything. I know I know.” She looks at herself in the mirror, popping her lips together, as I smudge my eyeliner on. “God, amazing what red lips can do for a gal.”
“It’s a wonder. You could pass for a Latina Marisa Tomei right now,” I comment.
“Don’t tell Victor that. He hates it when I put on lipstick. Says it makes me look trashy,” she says. I roll my eyes and don’t quantify that with a response. I apply –messily– even more black eyeliner to my lids, trying to go for a more “rock ‘n roll meant to roll out of bed like this” look over the “haggard, half-assed” look I had going on before.
I mess my bangs, fluff the rest of my mane with a bit of hairspray from the bathroom countertop and fling two dollars into the tip ashtray. Hopefully, the red lighting will block out the yellow hues of my hair. God, I can’t wait to go back to the salon. Why did I dye it for this role?
Chelsea stands and stares at me. I then carefully dab a tiny bit of rouge on my lips so they stand out just enough. Don’t want to overdo it.
“These lips were made for kissing,” I say. Chelsea laughs and shakes her head. “Ready?” Chelsea stands next to me with her arms crossed. I plead with my eyes, letting her know how much this means to me…for one reason or another. I still don’t know why it hurts, knowing he’s out there and I’m in here.
“OK, before we do this, let me be the devil’s advocate. What about driving tomorrow?” Chelsea asks.
“Let’s just see what they’re like. I’m sure we’ll have a few drinks and that will be that. Driving won’t be a problem,” I say.
“And, if you do like him and decide to stay?”
“Let’s figure that out when the time comes, yeah? I don’t want to bring this up, but I did put up with you last night,” I remind her.
“You’re such a good friend.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. But then, she uncrosses her arms, takes my arm and leads me out. Once out of the bathroom, I pull her back in.
“Wait, what’s our plan of action? I can’t go up to him again. I made such a fool out of myself the last time, and what if he’s talking to someone else?”
“You sound like a teenager. This isn’t a school dance. We’ll head to the bar, and see if they look our way. You look hot; he’ll want you. That’s that,” she tries to assure me.
“You sure?”
“Yesss. Del, are you really asking me that?”
“OK. Let’s go.”
“By the way, you didn’t notice because you were too busy running through the middle of the bar, but Guy was trying to get your attention?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him look up as we walked by and get up from the booth where he was talking to his boys. He was trying to walk towards you before you scuttled off.”
“Really? Well, obviously he was.” I laugh. “Thank you.” I grab her shoulders and kiss her on the cheek.
Now, a bit more confident, feeling a bit more sexy and with the knowledge that he may have wanted to speak to me some more, Chelsea and I head straight for the bar, ignoring him and his massive group of friends.
This is not a game; these are just the rules of the chase. You can’t mess with something that has been going on for hundreds of thousands of years. As a woman, I need to make sure he is truly interested, and for that to happen, he needs to pursue me. Although I never truly partook in these rules before, something tells me this time is different. Amen.
***
“Nothing is happening,” I say to Chelsea. We have been standing at the bar with new drinks for the past five minutes. We were only supposed to buy our first round, not our second. The boys huddle together like a soccer team and haven’t come up for air since we exited the bathroom. “This is a mistake. Let’s just finish our drinks and get out of here.” I feel stupid.
“We’re here. They’re there. Let’s just hold on for a bit longer,” she reassures me for the second time tonight.
I think if I casually dance to the music, that will draw a bit of much needed attention my way, and might just give me that dramatic allure to entice him. “Are they looking?”
“Probably not for the reasons you want them to,” Chelsea says.
“Ha. Ha. You are so funny,” I say. “I forgot to laugh. By the way, what do you think of Miles? You two seemed cozy.” I slurp up the rest of my drink and turn my back to the crowd of men, looking at her. She doesn’t have time to answer.
“Men alert, men alert,” Chelsea faces me. I stand up straight. We poke each other and try to be serious. Guy waltzes over. I don’t have to dance or do the splits or laugh unbearably loud to prove I’m having a good time in spite of him. He just hustles over, along with the rest of his fifteen British friends. Together. Not at all intimidating.
They circle us. Chelsea and I stand our ground and face them. With confidence. “How was the outside?” Guy says to me with a mellow smile. The rest of his friends gather, but quickly break off into their own conversations. A few glance over, mildly curious.
“Windy,” I say. One word answer seems to fit better than a soliloquy or poem on the meaning of life at this point.
“Thought you two were going to do a runner,” he says straight towards me.
“Haha. Hmmm. Nope. Haha.” I say.
“I’m Guy.”
“Guy?”
“Yes, Guy.”
“Adele.”
“Angel?”
“Nice one. But no. A-d-e-l-e. Adele. Like the singer,” I shout, so happy that a singer with my name had become famous. It sure beat saying, “Ya know, like the farmer and the dell?” Not at all sexy.
At first, I was very excited when The Legend of Bagger Vance had come out in the movies because Charlize Theron’s character had the name ‘Adele’ and I thought she was a tough, sassy character. Unfortunately, the reference was lost on nearly everyone, seeing as I, apparently, was the only one to have seen the movie. People see the celebrity, not the character.
This man’s name is Guy. Can’t get much more generic than that, and yet I have never known a Guy. I mean, I had known guys, but no guy like this.
“Guy what?” I ask.
“Already asking me my last name. That’s moving fast, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t think.” I smile with both eyes. My confidence is growing.
“Guy Lockhart.”
“That is a very nice name, Mr. Guy Lockhart. Nice to officially meet you.” He heads for the k
iss on the cheek and I stand still, letting him come in for it. His stubbly cheeks brush mine. I try to hide my goose bumps.
I don’t offer him my full name. Best to leave something for myself. If he wants it, he can ask for it. I want to say, “I’ve seen you in my dreams; a psychic woman on the street told me I’d meet you. I want you to hold me. Can we stay together the rest of our lives and make sweet, sweet love all night? I promise to proactively love you and not leave when the feeling goes away, but to try harder and appreciate you and listen and be there for you.”
Instead I smile through my closed mouth, and look away from him to Chelsea. I am just about to introduce her when I realize she is doing the bump and grind with Miles without touching. I didn’t really know that was possible, but it looks impressive, and boy, she works fast. Again, her left hand strategically placed behind her. His other friends are milling around, in their own worlds.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks. Finally.
“I would indeed like a drink, and so would Chelsea,” I say. “Oh. Sorry. Is that rude? I just meant, I would feel bad if I got a drink and she didn’t…but…” Here we go, stutter mouth.
I absentmindedly lean over sideways and grab Chelsea - it’s a normal thing to do in a situation like this. I feel like she’s my crutch
She swings her head towards me and just nods with her eyes slightly glazed over. Just slightly. She seems in that happy place.
“She would love one too,” I say to Guy. He orders two vodka sodas and another Amstel for himself.
His friend whom he was talking to when I originally walked past comes over. He could be straight out of a boy band. “Oh, Sam. This is Adele,” Guy says.
“Adele. I believe you owe me a drink,” Sam says.
“And why’s that?” I say, looking down my nose at him mockingly. He is a bit shorter than me; I am using it to my advantage.
“It’s my birthday, and my girlfriend can’t be here to buy me one, so you should. It’s only right.” I look at Guy. He laughs.
“It’s up to you,” Guy says.
“Oh, why not. You better text her right now to let her know I’m buying this for you. I don’t want to be a part of some argument later on,” I say to Sam, staring him down.
“We don’t argue,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “She is the best thing that has ever happened to me.” I am taken aback by his genuine tone of honesty and affection for her. Sure, he’s a bit drunk, but the amount of love he feels for her leaves me a bit winded. I can’t remember ever hearing an American man saying something like that.
The next hour goes by in a sort of blur. Everyone is talking to everyone else. Guy and I nod and smile at each other every chance we get, affirming the other’s presence. Guy’s arm skims mine every few minutes, his touch shaking me with the amount of desire behind it.
At one point, another one of Guy’s friends falls over in the middle of the hallway, clearly highly intoxicated. A bouncer swiftly swoops down, pulls him up and drags him out of the club backwards. I have never seen someone as drunk as this man.
“That’s not one of yours?” I say, pointing Guy to the doorway.
“Unfortunately it is. Chris. He flew in yesterday from London so I’m assuming he’s making the most of his night. It’s a good night when you get thrown out of a nightclub.” I secretly hope this is not what we have to look forward to as the night progresses. Guy leaves my side and goes to check on the situation. A leader – I like that. Chelsea is still dancing with Miles.
“Chris is done. Too much to drink and won’t be let back in.” Guy says when he comes back. He puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes it. I grin from ear to ear. He makes me feel important.
“Oh, do you need to go with him to make sure he’s alright?” I hope he doesn’t leave me. “He’s a big boy,” he says. Yes he is. And so are you.
My mind is telling me to not take this Guy too seriously. My heart is screaming something else, but you can’t always listen to your heart, can you? I did that the last time, and look where it got me.
Every now and then the entire group of fifteen men surround Chelsea and I, all asking us questions; it makes us feel special and exotic. We have somehow managed to monopolize an entire group of fifteen British men to ourselves, and I can’t help but smirk. Who wouldn’t enjoy the attention?
An older dark haired man named Nick, who looks a lot like a British TV presenter I saw on a home improvement show once, and who is sporting a very tight, purple polo shirt with the collar popped up, informs us that they will be heading upstairs to the Playboy Club. I look at Chelsea, and she looks back. We both have the same ‘uh-oh’ expressions on our faces.
If we do decide to go upstairs, we know this will be an all-nighter, and that will be bad. If we don’t go upstairs, we will never see these guys again, and even though that might save us a lot of heartache and problems, we really want to stay with these guys. Is it worth risking a very tired Monday at work to go off with these strange British men?
Chelsea and I don’t have to discuss it because we find ourselves being escorted towards the elevator. Guy grabs my hand. I let out a little squeal. He turns back towards me, and I just shake my head to let him know he didn’t actually hear a thing. This is the first time we’ve deliberately touched, I tell myself. He has a strong firm grip, with soft hands that emanate a solidity that immediately puts me at ease. They’re warm without any tepid balminess. I like his hands. I feel secure in his grip. I feel proud to be with this tall, strong, handsome, charming and British man. I’ve never felt more excited about anything I can remember.
“So how are you able to take so much time off work to travel?” I ask him, waiting for the elevator. His hands make me wonder what he does for work. Obviously, there’s no manual labor involved, and it is curious that a job would let him leave for so long.
“I took voluntary redundancy.”
“Voluntary redundancy? What’s that?” I feel stupid for asking, but I’ve never heard of it before.
“It’s like when they need to lay people off, but instead of doing that, they ask a few people if they will volunteer to do so. Those that take it get a large payout.”
“Oh, like a severance package.”
“I suppose so.” That solves that then. Communication will be tricky.
“Never feel embarrassed to ask me certain words. I totally understand.” He reads minds as well, apparently.
Miles tries to grab Chelsea’s arm, but she carefully and demurely glides out of it like a married woman. Guy and I enter the elevator, still holding hands. Holding hands is intimate and is like the Pretty Woman rule of “no kissing during prostituting” except here it’s the “no holding hands during first encounter with Englishman” rule. He squeezes my hand as if to say “Fuck it, I like you and that’s all that matters.” This is breaking every guideline I’ve ever preached to every single woman before me, but I like it.
There is an entry fee at the door. Twenty dollars per person. I hold in my gasp as Guy whips out his wallet and pays for Chelsea and I. She nods ‘Thank God’ to me, and we slither into the penthouse floor of the Palms.
More drinking, more dancing, a few pictures taken. Lots of women with very large breasts staring down my man, offering him drinks and other things. Guy doesn’t seem to notice at all. It’s the most peculiar thing, but he - honest-cross-my-heart-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-my-eye - doesn’t look at anyone else besides Chelsea, his friend Miles and me.
I tell myself this is simply polite behavior and chalk it up to nothing but that. Give it a few more drinks and it will all change. It’s just that my ex never thought it was rude to look at another woman – not to compare him to my ex, of course. He just said he was admiring the natural, or not so natural in these women’s cases, beauty of women. I called it a cheap trick, insulting and incredibly degrading. How nice that Guy doesn’t even seem concerned about the other women.
Chelsea pulls me into the bathroom and confides that she really
likes Miles as well. “Of course,” she tells me, “I would never ever do anything with him, but I can’t believe I even thought those Brazilian teenagers last night were so cool. Miles is way cooler than they are. It’s weird though because he’s really funny, but he’s not complimenting me at all. Is that wrong of me to say?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Of course it’s not wrong of you to say. Maybe it’s just his way. Plus, you’re used to your Colombian husband who probably showered you with compliments in the beginning to get in your pants. Obviously you deserve the compliments, but it doesn’t mean anything when it comes that early on.” She raises her eyebrows. I wait for her wrath, but she just nods her head in admittance.
A very tall leggy blonde in a leopard print dress abruptly falls out of the toilet stall. “Listen ghels. ‘Ere’s the score wi’ British men. Bugger,” she says as she adjusts her knickers. “Oi’ve lived in America now for a ye-ah and I miss those bloody gawjus Englishmen and their bloody good putdowns. Bloody ‘ell, I miss ‘em, I do.” She probably doesn’t say ‘bugger’ or ‘bloody hell’, but I imagine that she does. She speaks in a thick, high-pitched, grating London accent. I recognize that. She pushes her breasts out, pops a breath mint in her mouth, and wipes the corners of her nose.
“They ain’t like the Spanish men at all,” she says to Chelsea. “Yer roight ‘bout that. The Brits do the opposite. They don’t say nothin’ positive or negative in the beginnin’. Then, if they like ya, they start takin’ the piss outta ya. That’s the beginnin’ of a solid relationship. Ya know the minute ya’ve actually received a fully-fledged compliment it’s the moment they truly mean it and are falling for ya. That’s what our ‘ole culture is based on – complainin’ and dissin’ people, in the best possible way, ‘course. We ain’t cottoned on to your American way. Howeva, when summit nice is said, it makes it that much more meaningful. Trust me luv, – it beats the way your husband did it.” She grabs Chelsea’s shoulder. Who IS this woman?
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