Blue Rose In Chelsea

by Adriana Devoy

  “Good lord, there are lizards at large!” Sinclair recoils and collides with me at the sight of the iguana, which is not caged tonight but lurks in the corner, dragging itself incrementally like some mechanical toy whose batteries are running low.

  “It belongs to Brandon’s roommate. I’ve never met her, but I hear she sometimes brings the lizard to bed with her in her underwear and cuddles it like a teddy bear.”

  “That thing looks more crusty than custard left out overnight,” Sinclair whispers, horrified.

  An hour has passed and Evan has made a few rounds. The party is sort of partly in honor of him, so I suppose he’s obligated to speak with everyone, and everyone wants to hear all about his filming experience in Vancouver. There is buzz about the show being the next 21 Jumpstreet, and Evan being the next Johnny Depp.

  “I told you he has Depp hair!” Sinclair insists to me, as if this were some major bone of contention between us. Someone jokes that Evan will soon be a Tiger Beat pinup. Eventually Evan makes his way to Sinclair and I.

  “As the Red Queen once said to Alice, Look up, speak nicely, and don’t twiddle your fingers,” Sinclair instructs at Evan’s approach.

  I want to appear distracted and aloof, so I gaze out the wide swath of windows, to the dark and fecund city four stories below, and blow the mesh of my hat with my breath in a bored manner. This is the exact opposite of what I’m really feeling, which is attuned, like some Soviet spy, to Evan’s every word and nuance.

  Evan chats with Sinclair. Sinclair is eager to dish the dirt about the ballet world, and delights in Evan’s inside stories on the principal dancers at American Ballet Theatre. I realize I’ve never asked Evan much about his former career. He seems eager to talk of it, and is full of fascinating stories. Evan cradles a beer and wears a black pullover and jeans, and a tweed blazer with black velvet patches at the elbows. It’s almost something David would wear. Now and then Evan’s eyes sweep over me, and then back to Sinclair as he follows the conversation.

  “You barely said a word,” Sinclair scolds me when Evan walks away.

  “I just want to get out of here.” Evan feels a million miles away, with his new career, his new circle of friends, his new tweed blazer.

  “What is his costume, exactly? What is he?” Sinclair wonders, watching the back of Evan as he chats with a girl on the couch.

  “He’s a rising star who no longer takes an interest in his old friends, that’s what!” I say petulantly.

  “What’s with the Robert Deniro mannerisms?” Sinclair observes.

  “That’s his favorite actor,” I giggle, and feel suddenly haughty at the idea of Evan adopting the mannerisms of his Hollywood idol. Perhaps he’s not so cocksure as he appears!

  The Gum Goddess drifts by, and smiles at us.

  “Do you want me to chat her up, and do some digging?” he asks.

  “No!” I say defiantly. “I don’t want to know anything about her. It’s enough that she’s got a perfect face and figure and perfect poise. If I find out she’s on scholarship to Harvard or the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, or starring in her own series, I’m jumping out this window.”

  “My dear, you are much prettier than she, and you’ve got better legs. There is not a more glorious set of gams in Gotham than yours. You have that ingénue charm. You are Libby from St. Martin’s Lane, a willowy but fiery waif with a reserve of talent, just waiting to light up the world!”

  “Well, I feel like the lizard: out of place and prickly as hell.” I gulp my last warm guzzle of gin, resisting the urge to scratch my contrived cleavage where the lace trim of my costume is giving me hives. I make my way to the bathroom as quickly as can be accomplished in stiletto heels. I check my makeup, which has held up remarkably well. There’s nothing like a mist of rain in the air to set one’s makeup, and the walk to the loft has done the trick, while the pillbox hat with the mesh netting compliments my pile of curls. When I return, Sinclair is beside Evan, who is seated on a couch reading something. I realize with alarm that it’s one of my poems published in a literary journal that I gave to Sinclair some time ago.

  “Why did you give him that? This is a party. It’s no time for depressing poetry,” I joke, and without appearing to grab it, I manage to slip the booklet away from Evan, whose genuinely quick reflexes are slowed from drinking.

  Evan looks up at me. “I want to read it.”

  “It’s just a bad rip-off of Sylvia Plath’s ‘Elm’” I say, which is true.

  “Leave a copy with me. I want to read it later. I’m so proud of you.” He cranes his neck to look up at me as I tower over him in my stilettos.

  Someone hauls him playfully off the couch, knocking Evan up against me, his hands brushing my thighs, and then he’s gone.

  “I’m going to kill you.” I mouth to Sinclair each word slowly and deliberately while maintaining my I’m Having A Great Time party face.

  “You must learn the art of parading your talents. Everyone in this city is skilled at self-promotion, even those with nothing to promote. You, on the other hand, keep your prodigious talents packed away in desk drawers or under bulky clothing,” the devilish Count chastises, giving a fluff to my droopy apron.

  “I’m so proud of you?” I echo Evan’s compliment, incredulous. “That’s something a parent would say to a child! What am I, five? I got a gold star in spelling today, Daddy! It sounds so condescending, so patronizing. I’m so proud of you? I’m so proud of you?” I repeat over and over, growing more annoyed each time, the words sticking to my tongue like saltwater taffy.

  “You’re slouching, my dear. Remember the first rule of ballet: ears over shoulders, shoulders over hips, hips over knees.”

  “It’s the shoes. I can’t believe you talked me into wearing these FMPs.” Because Sinclair has no clue what I’m talking about I define the acronym. “F-me pumps.”

  “Your tiara is tilted.” He attempts to adjust the hat, but I duck out of his reach. I tuck away the mesh netting, and try to flatten my over-sprayed locks. “I look like an Early Eighties Big Hair. I may as well just have Suburban Un-chic tattooed on my forehead. I should not have let you dress me! I thought gay men were supposed to be on the cutting edge of fashion. Big hair is out, Sinclair, and has been for five years. Look at Aphrodite. She’s got Little Hair!” I hiss.

  I plead with him to let us leave, but Sinclair has one more trick up his satanic sleeve. He spies the Petrof piano in the corner, and decides that I should sit down and play something, one last talent on parade. He shuffles me over toward it, and digs the score of Gypsy out of the piano bench, opening to “All I Need Is The Girl.” He sings along softly as he reads the lyrics, begging me to begin.

  “Got my tweed pressed, got my best vest, all I need now is the girl. This is perfect. He’s wearing tweed!” he whispers loudly, enunciating as if I were deaf. “Tyne Daly is a kick-ass Mama Rose on Broadway. Who knew Lacy had it in her?”

  I give him a look that says, No Way and he opens the score to the newest musical Phantom Of The Opera.

  “Oh, this song, just once for me, then we’ll leave, I promise,” he cajoles.

  The idea of hiding behind a piano is suddenly appealing. I settle in and begin to play. The score is not difficult, and my sight-reading has always been good. Sinclair hums along with it, and now and then sings a phrase, clutching his heart, and nodding heroically. Suddenly a voice joins in. I look up to see The Gum Goddess, her perfectly manicured cuticles splayed on the piano, as she begins to croon. Sinclair’s voice peters out, and the conversations in the room cease, as everyone turns to listen, to a voice that is both beautiful and obviously professionally-trained.

  I keep my eyes on the score and try to breathe so that I don’t miss a beat, now that we’ve suddenly become the center of attention.

  “Think of me/think of me fondly/when we’ve said goodbye/think of me every so often/promise me you’ll try.” The Goddess has them all in the palm of her French manicured hands. I become painfully aware of my chipped
pink polish and stubby nails, as I fade further into the background. I’m Sam the piano player to her Ingrid Bergman.

  “And on that day/on that fateful day/when you are far away and free/If you happen to remember/stop and think of me.”

  I glance up only briefly to gain a feeling for what’s unfolding in the room. Everything has gone still, like the eye of a hurricane.

  “Though it was clear/though it was always clear/that this was never meant to be/if you happen to remember/stop and think of me.”

  It’s as if someone has lanced my side with a sword; these words seem meant for Evan and I.

  The Gum Goddess suspends the last note, and I suspend breathing, and then the room breaks into applause and cheers.

  “Don’t play it again, Sam,” Sinclair whispers in my ear.

  I slip away from the piano and pull Sinclair with me. No one is eager to lay wreaths at the feet of the lowly accompanist; all praise and adoration is heaped on the singer.

  “We are getting out of here now!” I hiss-whisper.

  We sidle up to the elevator, stiff and suspicious looking, as if we are about to stage a coup de’tat. Mercifully, the Down elevator is within the loft, unlike the Up elevator, which is out in the hallway and around the bend. The lizard impedes our path, but I stomp my stiletto.

  “It’s not a cat. Apparently reptiles don’t frighten easily.” Sinclair attempts to encourage the slow-as-syrup creature along with his shiny loafer, but the lizard is having none of it.

  With my back to the wall, I manage to discreetly press the elevator button behind me. I don’t want to draw attention to our departure.

  “I’ll get your coat. Don’t you want to say your goodbyes?”

  “No! I want to vanish like the Cheshire Cat, never again to be seen by the cretins of Chelsea.”

  “You can’t leave behind the Technicolor Dreamcoat,” Sinclair bleats, and then to the lizard, “Off with your head!”

  As the elevator door closes, I edge backwards into it, and jam my finger on the button. The door closes, slowly collapsing into a crescent of light. I flatter myself to think that Evan witnesses this with some measure of alarm and disappointment, that his face floats into view at the very last moment, but it could only be wishful thinking on my part, or the wistful effects of the gin.

  I dash out into the street, where the subway rumbles underground like some great waking beast. Despite having no coat, I don’t feel the cold; the heat of defeat burns bitterly within me. Half of me longs for escape, the other half hangs back and listens, straining to hear footsteps, hoping that Evan will flee the party and find me. I could swear he witnessed my great escape. Is it possible he may follow me, chase me down this dark pavement drenched with the milky glow of streetlights, and grab hold of me, beg me not to go? I hear it then, the door opening, and footfalls on pavement hurrying to catch up with me. Oh, this is the best thing! He is coming after me! Now I have to dry my eyes. What will I say? I hope my mascara has not run. What should I reveal? This is the moment that I will confess everything to him, or perhaps he will speak his feelings first. A newfound strength surges through me, as if someone has plugged me into the city’s enormous power grid. I run quicker, challenging my pursuer to catch me. The pace behind me quickens, and an arm grabs my arm.

  But it’s only Sinclair.

  I burst into tears. “It’s only you!”

  “Yes, just me,” he says, but with great sympathy.

  “I always knew this would happen! Did you see her? With her perfect shoes, and perfect teeth, and her perfect costume that is just the proper balance of sultriness and sophistication, unlike this in-your-face-bid for attention, this cheap get-up?”

  “That is not tinky! That is Belgian lace!” He gently smacks my hand away from the apron, which I’ve scrunched in my fists.

  “Who am I kidding? I’m not sexy. I’m not chic. I’m Polly Purebred, in my little shoes with bows on the toes!”

  “I would have nixed the bows,” he agrees, with a glance at the white polyester ribbons on my black patent leather pumps.

  “I always knew that one day The Fabulous One would appear to replace me.”

  “My dear, you haven’t been replaced. You were never put in place. But we can still get you in position,” he states, with the cool resolve of a military strategist.

  “It’s too late! Oh, I hate this. I tried to get him out of my mind, but it’s not possible! There is no cure for this! There is no cure for this!” I shout, circling about like a cat after it’s own tail, in my tiny wisp of a dress, my legs freezing in the black fishnets. I stumble on a grate in my four-inch heels. People trot by and turn to stare, but with the usual jaded lack of concern; they take me in as the passing curiosity that I am.

  “There is no cure for this!”

  “Polly, people will think you’re a hooker who’s suddenly gotten some bad lab results,” he warns, slipping his devil cape off and draping it across my shivering shoulders. I can see in the reflection of a shop window that my mascara is smeared. Sinclair steers me down the street, propping me up with his pitchfork when I occasionally stumble. Eventually we duck into a diner, taking refuge in a blue vinyl booth out of the way, in a corner. Above us is a bronze-toned photo of Marilyn Monroe in her early years, sprawled on a sandy beach in a vintage bathing suit.

  “I don’t want to be with an actor!” I’m emphatic. Our coffee arrives and Sinclair dumps three packets of sugar into his, as if I’ve driven him to such extremes. “What kind of a profession is that anyway? It’s a namby-pamby profession, that’s what it is!”

  “I’ve never heard anyone but my grandmother use the term namby-pamby.” He lifts his eyebrows, impressed.

  “It’s all vanity. What kind of job is that? Pretending to be someone else? Actors are spoiled, pampered narcissists. Men ought to be masculine, they ought to build things, to do something that requires brute strength!” I brandish my fork like a brigadier, and then, “Oh, I’m sorry, Sinclair, of course, I don’t mean you.”

  He waves his hand. “It’s impossible to offend me. I take too great a delight in myself. And I will have you know that it takes a testosterone-fueled thumb to thread a needle skillfully.”

  “I don’t want that kind of life. I wouldn’t want that kind of life, a movie, Hollywood life, but I do want him. Oh, why do I want him so badly?”

  “That is a paradox,” he says. “Perhaps you can convince him to take up professional bowling.”

  I giggle.

  “Perhaps he’ll be a big flop at acting, and then you can steer him into some proper profession, like plumbing.” Sinclair nudges my coffee toward me, blotting some of his red devil makeup off his cheeks.

  “Oh, sure, great! That’s what I’ll do,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’ll stand on the sidelines, silently rooting for the demise of his dreams. The strange thing is, I can’t bear the thought of him being unhappy, isn’t that odd? Did you see her? She’s perfect for him. She has the same translucent complexion; the woman hasn’t got a visible pore! She’s so poised and polished.”

  “Oh pooh on poise. And what good is a pore, if you can’t see it? Silver should be polished, not people. You, my dear, are an original.” He waves on the waitress to sprinkle more confectionary sugar on his waffles.

  “And she’s an actress, which puts them completely in sync.” I entwine my index and middle finger, in illustration of my point.

  “Or in competition. Men don’t want to date themselves. A man prefers someone who is different from him. Of course, most men don’t discover this until after the age of thirty-eight. Up until then, they generally seek out someone who reflects back their own idealized image. But I digress. And if they are so in sync, why couldn’t Evan take his eyes off of you when you were playing the piano? He wasn’t looking at Aphrodite when she was singing her Aphro-ditty.”

  I giggle, almost choking on my coffee. “Is that true, or are you trying to make me feel better?”

  “I do not fib when it comes to important matters
. I only fib for the trivial. And, I might add, he witnessed your rather auspicious exit. I don’t think anyone else noticed. You executed it so brilliantly, slipping soundlessly onto the elevator like a shaft of light. It was as if Scottie himself had beamed you up. You were there, then gone, in a flash!” He snaps his fingers an inch from my face. “But he saw it. Now, what does that tell you?”

  “It gives me hope,” I say. My heart, previously sunk somewhere around my ankles, floats slowly up to my knees.

  “You know, Haley, Evan may not be the person you think he is.”

  This statement seems full of hidden meanings, especially since Sinclair, for the first time, calls me by my actual name.

  “What do you mean? Spill it!” I command, when he opens his mouth but no words come.

  “The guy, Palomer, that Evan put me in touch with for a job, he told me that Evan was fired from the ballet company.”

  “Fired? No, he’s mistaken. Evan quit to pursue an acting career.”

  “I don’t think so. He said Evan was fired for failing to show up to rehearsals, and for coming in hung over and unable to work, sometimes drunk.”

  “That’s crazy. Evan’s a teetotaler. I’ve seen him nurse one beer for hours on end. Even tonight, the most you could say of him was that he was tipsy.”

  “Perhaps he was going through some sort of trauma at the time, that caused him to drink and lose his job,” Sinclair suggests.

  “Evan doesn’t lose jobs. Evan doesn’t lose anything. He gets everything he wants, he achieves everything he attempts. He’s Midas; everything he touches turns to gold.”

  Sinclair sighs deeply, and flaps his sugar packets. “Five minutes ago he was a namby-pamby narcissist. You’ll have to give me some hint, some sort of heads up, so that I know whether it’s a Praise Evan or Trash Evan day. Perhaps a simple thread tied around your pinky finger to cue me. Pink for praise, and green for guillotine.”