by Nikki Bella
They began to yell again, instructing me. They’d all had “experience” at their own liquor cabinets, and wanted to tell me what to do. Sheepish, I tried to follow their lead, adding bourbon to a shaker and then staring into it, hearing my father’s words echoing in my brain. “You can’t make it out there. You can hardly make it here, Margot.”
Feeling my arms begin to shake, I dropped the bottle of bourbon back on the counter and began to back away, panicked. Sweat went down my forehead in bullets. As they called out to me, I raced into the bathroom, huddling against the corner and wishing myself far, far away. Everything had fallen apart at once. Was it really my fault?
I stared at myself in the mirror, taking it in. A small, meek little person, with frightful, dark eyes. The black dress I’d chosen was slinky, showing a bit more cleavage than I was really comfortable with. Who was I kidding? As I stood there, listening to the sound of my breathing, I heard mass chaos in the next room. A roar of alarm, then of happiness, joy. What were they doing? Perhaps Roy had come back to save the day?
I unlocked the door and crept out, taking stock of the scene. On my side of the bar, a tall, dark-haired man—gorgeous, with thick muscles, strong shoulders, and this wonderful cutting smile with perfect teeth, was making drinks. He’d rolled up his dark button-up, and was doing the motion easily, speaking to the guests and laughing with them. He was a good deal older than me, maybe in his mid-thirites, with gruff five o’ clock shadow that made him very alluring. He slid drink after drink over the bar—things I didn’t recognize but that looked so inviting. The crowd was an in uproar, taking photos of him, absolutely enamored.
Who was this guy?
I approached him from the side, incredulous. I gave him a warm, curious smile. In response, he said, “I hope you don’t mind. There was a backlog, and I used to do this kind of stuff in college. A million years ago.” He winked.
“Honestly, I needed the help,” I said. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
He placed three drinks on a platter and passed it to me, saying, “These go to the table in the far corner. Do you know table numbers? I couldn’t find a map.”
“This is my first day,” I said, my voice small in my own ears. “And nobody told me which table is which.”
“Shit, girl,” he laughed. “This is the biggest mess I’ve seen in ages. And that’s coming from me.”
I tittered, not knowing what he meant. Was this someone I was supposed to know? I frowned at him, incredulous, and then waited, searching for the right words to say in response.
But he covered for me, beginning to shake a martini. “We’ll get through this together.”
He gave me such a sense of promise. After taking a long, deep breath, I grabbed the platter with the drinks and sped toward the far table, delivering drinks. Each time I arrived back to the bar, he’d displayed a number of prepared glasses and bottles, working with speed and agility. The bar was in uproar, absolutely enamored with him. After just a few minutes with him, I had to admit I was falling deep in love—as anyone would, with the man who’d saved her life.
“What would you do without him, eh?” one customer in the corner asked, when I brought him his third round. His eyes were glazed. “What would any of us do? Say, is this some kind of shtick?”
“What do you mean?” I asked him, blinking wildly.
He cackled. “So it is a shtick.”
I didn’t know what he meant. Time was ticking by, my muscles were moving fast and wild and free as I bounded through the restaurant. The stranger at the bar began to tease me, especially as it inched closer to midnight. After a lag in drink orders, he began to teach me how to mix my own drinks—beginning with the martini.
“Hold the shaker like this,” he instructed, pinning my fingers in place. As he touched me, my skin burned with anticipation. I wanted to cling to his fingers, keep him close. I shook the drink and poured it, my arms shaking, knowing he was watching.
“That’s right. Good job. Maybe you’ll be a real bartender someday,” he laughed, not in an unnatural or forced way.
As the night drew to a close, various people at the bar approached us, speaking to the stranger with their hands spread out wide, their eyes large. “Say, my girlfriend just fucking loves you, man. Maybe you could give me some kind of autograph.”
But the stranger shrugged his shoulders, pointing to me. “Aren’t I just the nameless and faceless bartender you see here all the time?”
I nodded, keeping up with this game I didn’t quite understand, didn’t quite care to know. I’d begun to sip a drink he’d made me, a fruity one, and giggling wildly at his jokes. Whoever this man was, I didn’t care. I just wanted him to stick around.
The moment the clock struck two, I slammed the door shut with a huff. As I collapsed against it, I heard the stranger begin to clap behind me. Swirling back, I gave him my broadest grin and curtsey, saying, “If it wasn’t for you, I would be dead right now. Rodney, the real bartender, just disappeared! He’s gone. What the hell…”
The curse felt strange in my mouth. I normally said “heck” or “shoot” or other, family-friendly varieties. I grinned sheepishly at myself, at how silly I felt. Then I waited. The songs changed on the radio, putting us through a horrendous moment of silence.
In the midst of this, he gave me a deep, meaningful look. “I have to ask you a question.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“You really don’t know who I am?”
I stepped forward, scrutinizing the cut of his jaw, his thick, dark eyebrows, his olive skin. With a pang of fear, I said, “I’m so sorry. I realized I never asked for your name.”
With that, he burst out laughing. Immediately, my cheeks turned a crisp red. I knew I was foolish, wrong. I grabbed the broom near the register and said, “Listen, I can clean up from here. Why don’t you take all the tips and go? You did most of the work, anyway.”
But he just snapped his finger, beckoning for me to come toward him. He began to mix two drinks, a margarita and another he called “my personal medicine.” He poured them into two glasses and passed one to me, clinking his glass to mine. I was so unaccustomed to having any attention from men, my heart began to hammer.
“To you. To this bar. And to being nobody to you. What a thing,” he said, his voice quiet and deep.
I sipped the margarita, falling into tipsiness. Swiping the back of my hand against my lips, I found the words. “All right then. If it’s so important that I don’t know who you are—who the hell are you?”
Hell again. I twisted my shoulders slightly, growing uncomfortable. I prayed that he’d leave soon, so that I wouldn’t feel so on display. He was analyzing everything about me, my waist, my breasts, my hair. With a twist, he turned the radio channel, increasing the volume to the ‘80s-centric station and bringing a broad grin across his face. He reached across the bar and gripped my hand, saying, “Come on, baby. Let’s dance.”
And, without knowing who he was, or why I felt I needed to follow his lead, I dropped my drink to the counter and obeyed him. I had the sense that he often got what he wanted. But why on earth would I refuse him?
Jack
I was exhausted. Strained. My arms ached. My legs were creaky. I hadn’t bartended in over ten years, not since before the “big acting break.” When I’d snuck into this usually dark, smoky bar to knock back a few martinis and other cocktails—working, naturally, to forget my own name—I hadn’t imagined that I’d be swept up into six hours of bartending.
I was accustomed to having people stare at me. To having people rush up to me in the street and ask me my opinion about things—anything they could quote on their blog or online zine, whatever. I was accustomed to being photographed when I took Gigi to the park, already imagining the captions: “Dad puts on different face with daughter.” “Party monster Jack Garrington is on daddy duty.” That kind of drivel.
So—I was pretty sure I’d shock the pretty brunette with the wide smile and bright, hopeful eyes when I a
ppeared on her side of the bar, cooking up her cocktails. She’d looked at me, panicked, and had barely registered anything besides the need to get the drinks out and save her job. And in that moment, I knew I needed to help her. She didn’t have anyone else. Despite being a billionaire, an actor, model—the list goes on—it felt good to be needed in a more concrete way by someone.
The hip Brooklyn assholes who appeared at the bar knew me, of course. They’d seen my shitty movies from the past five years—had probably argued over their social impact over cocktails at this very bar. They gave me big, stupid grins and photographed me for their social media profiles. Then, they called more of their friends to come—leaving me and this little girl to walk our feet off and shake cocktails till the bar closed down. I kept wondering if my cohort would catch on, if she’d say, “Hey, aren’t you that guy?” but she just kept her eyes focused, appealing to me to shake faster, to swirl, to stab olives with toothpicks.
Now, I found us dancing in the center of the bar, my hands on her waist and her eyes glittering with drink. When I’d asked her if she really didn’t know me—she’d gone completely blank. So, for the first time in…what? Ten years? I’d found myself acting normally. With each interaction, I hadn’t asked myself, “What should Jack Garrington say right now?” Rather, I’d asked, “What do I want to say right now? What do I want to do?” I wasn’t marketing myself. I was pure.
After another twenty minutes of dancing, we had made a rotation right back to the bar. I fell against the bar, huffing, watching her. She was glistening, shaking with laughter as another ‘80s song blared through the speakers. I mixed us two more drinks, and passed the margarita to her, watching as she guzzled it greedily. It was clear that this girl didn’t have much experience, period. But she was alive for it. She wanted it. I could see it in the sparkle of her eyes.
“So,” I began, wanting to steer back to our conversation. “I know I didn’t catch your name, either.”
The girl swept her hair behind her ears, leaning against the bar. She was actively flirting now, showing me the cleavage of her dark dress. “I’m Margot.”
“Margot. What a name,” I said. The only other Margot I’d met had been a thin-lipped model in France, who’d told me I would never “be serious” in my life. She meant it in a bad way. “Margot, I need to ask you a few more questions, I think.”
She blinked her wide eyes, looking like a helpless animal. I wanted to hold her tightly to me, sweep my fingers through her hair. I wanted to taste the soft spot of her neck.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“How is it possible that you don’t know who I am? I mean,” I splayed my hands wide atop the counter. “I really haven’t met anyone who didn’t know me in years. I frankly can’t remember the last time.”
Margot scrunched her nose, probably thinking I was playing myself up. But I was acting genuine, feeling I’d stepped into another dimension. She shrugged, glancing toward the door. Did she want to leave?
“I just got to New York,” she said, her voice tentative. “I’m from Michigan. And I hadn’t left Michigan in fifteen years, before now. That’s when we went on a family vacation to Indiana. So, you can see…” She continued, clearly seeming foolish. “I barely know much about anything or who anyone is. And I’m sorry if that makes me seem dopey or stupid to you. I’m a pretty fast learner. Maybe if you just tell me…”
I pressed my lips together, recognizing that this wasn’t a time to make her feel foolish, to tell her she was even more of an imposter than she felt. I reached across the counter, holding her hand for a long moment. She didn’t try to tug it away. What was it about this girl that made me want to pour out my soul?
“Margot, it’s been one of the worst days of my life,” I stammered, filling the silence.
“Same,” she said in return, laughing. “Well, until you, I mean. Um. Heh. I might be a little drunk.”
My mind raced. I sat on a barstool, tapping the one beside me. The night felt young, especially as I’d spent the previous few nights up till at least four, sometimes six. Margot sat beside me, cradling her drink. She was growing increasingly attractive. My cock made itself known to me, striding up against my pant leg. I gazed into her eyes, saying, “I’m one of the top-paid actors in all of the United States, and I’m the unhappiest of them all.”
Margot took it in stride. “Sounds serious. What’s happening?”
“There was an accident,” I began, wanting desperately to explain the situation to an outside party. Someone who had no comprehension of who I was, or who my ex-wife was. “I had a pretty insane party last night. A girl—she took too many pills, too many shots. Too much of everything. She broke her ankle on the way from my apartment building, and it was written up in the newspaper. Essentially, she blames me, saying I’m some kind of demon party planner.”
“Well, that’s just silly,” Margot said, placing her hand on mine before immediately, like lightning, taking it away. She grimaced, clearly unsure how close she wanted to get to me. I made her nervous. I could tell. “It wasn’t your fault, what this girl did. It’s not like you told her to leave. It’s not like you were guiding her hand.”
“Well, that’s really not what’s bugging me,” I sighed. “Well. Sort of. I mean, it’s the start of it. Because that happened, my ex-wife wants to take total custody over our daughter. It’s not because she loves our daughter more, or thinks I’m some kind of criminal. She just sees an opening to make me miserable, and she wants to take it. When you get as famous as we are, it all becomes some kind of game. You even count the newspaper articles about the other.”
Margot’s nose crinkled.
“I know,” I said, gesturing. “It’s absolutely disgusting. It’s no way to live. And I was thinking, all day, that I need to just get out of New York. I want to be as far away from her as I possibly can. But I want to bring my daughter with me.”
Margot pressed her arms together on her chest, probably sensing she was out of her depth. But she pressed on, saying, “Is there a way you could go on some kind of trip with her? Just for a little while, till everything calms down?”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “Things never calm down. Things happen. Then other things happen. And my ex-wife is counting and sending emails to the custody lawyer and…” I trailed off.
“You have as much hope for your life as I did back in Michigan,” Margot whispered. “You’re just like me!”
“Maybe,” I affirmed, loving this small comparison. I smiled, feeling soft. “You know, I always think about it. My mother left me her Parisian apartment, right in the heart of the Marais. I want to take Gigi there. I want to show her where my mother lived, before my father dragged her to America and ruined her life.”
“That sounds magical,” Margot whispered. “Not the part where your father ruined your mother’s life. Um. I mean the other part. The Paris part. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. Since I was a little girl and somebody told me my name sounded French,” she giggled.
“Then come with me,” I said, shrugging. “I’ll take Gigi. You can be her babysitter or… or… au pair, or something. We’ll scrape the grime of this city from our backs and start anew in Europe.”
Margot laughed again, nervously, her eyes skirting around. “I haven’t even given New York a real shot yet,” she said. “I don’t even know if I like it.”
“Let me ask you this, Margot,” I said, leaning toward her. Our lips were mere inches apart. “Have you seen anyone smiling at you in the last few weeks, since you arrived? Has anyone asked you how your day was going, or given you some kind of sense that you belong?”
She sniffed, rising up. She began to sweep the back of the bar with a broom, her head shaking. “That’s one thing I’m trying not to think about.”
“Then don’t. And come along with me.”
Paris. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I could imagine it so well now. Walking hand in hand with Gigi along the Canal St. Martin, buying baguettes with her
and watching her nibble on the edge, the crispy part—the part my mother loved the best. Gigi would learn French and I would bolster my own, becoming the Frenchman my mother always dreamed I would be. Scraping off my American persona. Plenty of celebrities escaped to France, didn’t they? I saw no reason I couldn’t do this, as well.
After a moment’s pause, I rose and took Margot’s broom from her, pushing it against the far wall. I slipped my hand into hers, clinging to it. As her eyes met mine, I saw how nervous she’d become.
“Don’t clean up for them,” I said. “They left you alone here. You don’t owe them anything.”
“But…?”
“Look. It’s only three in the morning. It’s the city that never sleeps,” I said. “I know you know the saying. Especially since you’ve probably been plotting your escape here for years.”
She blushed, glancing away from me. It was like staring into my eyes burned her. There was a depth between us I couldn’t describe with words. Perhaps it was only a result of alcohol. Who was to say?
“Just one more drink,” she finally stammered, drawing a smile between her cheeks. “I guess I can’t think of a reason not to.”
“But Paris is where you draw the line?” I asked.
“I just don’t see this night going across the Atlantic, if I’m being honest,” she tittered, tossing the broom back into a side closet. “But honestly, at this point, I’m open to all surprises.”
Margot
Jack Garrington. Why didn’t his name ring a bell? As he waited for me in the main area, I went to freshen up in the bathroom. Instead, I spent most of my three minutes gliding through my phone to get a feel for just who this man was. Immediately, his photograph flashed up, alongside a gorgeous, curly-haired blonde woman. The Internet told me she was Kelsey Bonner, his ex-wife—with whom he had one child. I scrunched my nose, blasting through the images, with no recollection of him at all. The movies could have been foreign, for all I knew. In the end, I had to accept that I’d been living under a rock all my life. As if I didn’t know that already.