Vee (Volume 1)

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  “Straight from Paris to our stage, may I present Benoît Grenier and Daniel Marceau.”

  Hearty applause fills the club and Vee and I are as excited as the rest, Vee especially. The young men come out on stage, acknowledging the audience with a bow and a smile. The dark-haired one—Benoît, I think—goes to the piano, settling himself behind the keys. The singer, Daniel, his blond hair slicked back, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck, steps up to the microphone. The pair exchange a glance, a nod, and a small, secret smile.

  Vee leans close to me, whispering in my ear. “Do you think they’re in love?” She shifts her attention back to the stage, but her hand finds mine in the gloom.

  “Mesdames et messieurs, bienvenue—welcome to the last performance of ours here at the Birdland,” Daniel says. There’s a groan of disappointment that ripples through the audience, and he gives a regretful shrug. “I’m sure we’ll be back again. It has been our dream to play here.” Again he glances at Benoît, and I’m sure there’s heat there between them.

  Benoît leans forward to his mic. “But if you’re in Montréal next week, we’ll be there. It’s not too far away.” He winks, and Vee laughs. His gaze shifts to us and he smiles. A familiar song fills the air.

  Vee taps her feet to ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’, and I’m glad we’ve come. Aside from the other night, I so rarely see live music anymore. Without missing a beat, Vee turns to me, mouthing the words, and for a moment it seems as if she’s singing with a man’s low tenor. I begin to laugh, but stifle it behind my hand, mindful of the performance. Vee turns back towards the stage, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. My gaze moves to Daniel. A lock of hair has fallen over his forehead as he sings, his blue eyes intense in the spotlight. He focuses on a point out in the midst of the tables, and I wonder if he’s singing to someone in particular, or no one at all.

  Their second song is upbeat, and the entire set has Vee tapping her toes. Even I can’t resist. Benoît begins playing the Hoagy Carmichael song, ‘Mr. Music Master’, which has an almost-music box quality to it, and he and Daniel are smiling by the last lines.

  The song ends, and Daniel turns to face Benoît, moving towards the piano until he’s able to lean on its edge like an old-fashioned chanteuse. Benoît nods at him and begins the next song. I’ve never heard it before, and it isn’t one of the typical old classics that they played last time. I straighten in my seat and notice that Vee has leaned forward slightly, her attention fixed on the stage. Daniel’s voice is low, almost mysterious, enchanting. I don’t understand all the words, but I can feel the emotion as he sings. Vee’s fingers tighten on mine, and I don’t think she’s even realized she’s done it. If I could make this moment last, I would. There’s nothing more perfect than this.

  At the end of the evening, I’m surprisingly reluctant to leave, despite my lingering tiredness, and I can tell Vee doesn’t want to either.

  “Bathroom,” I say, sliding off my stool. Vee nods.

  When I return, she’s not at the bar. I scan the club but the light is dim and it’s hard to see far.

  “She’s with Daniel,” says a French-accented voice from behind me. I turn. It’s the pianist. He holds a snifter of brandy and his bow tie is undone, draped around his neck, the top button of his white tuxedo shirt open.

  “Is she?”

  “Over there.” He indicates a corner on the other side of the bar. Vee throws her head back and laughs and Daniel laughs with her.

  “Hopefully he’s not disappointed when he realizes he’s not her type,” I remark.

  “Don’t worry,” Benoît says. “She’s not his type either.” He chuckles. “May I buy you a drink, madame?”

  “Alex,” I say, holding out my hand. He clasps my hand and his fingers are warm, pleasant.

  “Benoît,” he says. When he lets go of my hand, he waves the bartender over.

  “I’ll have a kir royale,” I say. Benoît grins at my choice.

  “Very French.”

  “When in Rome,” I quip.

  “Just so.” He glances over at Daniel and Vee. “She’s pretty. And that hair—I’ve rarely seen such a shade. She’s your petite amie?”

  “She is. And Daniel—you and he are…?”

  He grins then, a bright burst of joy, showing a dimple in his cheek. “Oh yes,” he says. “Je l’aime.”

  I look over at Vee again. She and Daniel are talking and they seem already comfortable with each other. She’s not that much younger than he is, actually.

  “Vous l’aimez, n’est pas?” Benoît asks, leaning on the bar. It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s asked.

  “Very much,” I reply. So much it sometimes frightens me. This May-December thing hovers at the edge of my thoughts, exacerbating my tiredness. I can’t keep up. The bartender brings my kir royale.

  “Santé,” Benoît says, and we clink glasses. “But you are worried about her age?”

  He’s more perceptive than I’d realized. “We already get looks,” I reply. “She never notices them, but I do. People seem to think I should be her mother, not her girlfriend.”

  “Are you happy?” Benoît is startlingly direct.

  “Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without Vee,” I say. And it’s like Vee has heard me, as she turns to blow me a kiss.

  “Then hold onto that, and don’t let others get you down.” Benoît takes a sip of his brandy. “I almost lost Daniel and I treasure every moment. Even coming here—it’s a miracle of sorts. For a long time I wasn’t sure we’d make it.” A shadow passes over his features and he pushes back the curls from his forehead. I don’t want to pry.

  “Shall we join them?” I suggest. “Find out what they’re laughing about?”

  “D’accord.” Benoît extends his arm in a very old-fashioned, gentlemanly way, and escorts me over. “Daniel, je presente Alex, la copine de Vee.”

  Vee comes over to kiss me. I let go of Benoît’s arm and slip my arm around Vee’s waist. She leans into me.

  “Enchantée,” Daniel says. He’s drinking whiskey, I see, his hand fidgeting with the glass, turning it on the bar. Benoît stills his hand, twining their fingers together.

  “What have we missed?” Benoît asks. “I hope you weren’t telling embarrassing stories about me?” He raises a brow. Vee giggles.

  “Nothing bad, I promise,” she says. “He was telling me about how you met and nearly tripped over him.”

  “Ah.” Benoît nods. “I suppose I should be thankful for his duffel bag. Who knows what would have happened otherwise?” He gives Daniel a fond look and it is obvious how much they love each other.

  “We had a bookstore instead of a duffel bag,” Vee says, “but it took Alex a year to proposition me.” She laughs when I pinch her side.

  “It wasn’t a year,” I say.

  “All right, ten months. Ish.” Vee grins at me and her Monroe stud glints in the low light.

  “What took so long?” Daniel asks.

  So many things. All the what ifs: what if she already has a girlfriend? what if she wasn’t gay? what if I was older than her mother?

  I glance at Benoît, remembering his words. “I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to try.”

  “And here we are,” Vee says. Her lips are on mine and I give in to her kiss, tasting the ginger from her drink, a delicious zing on my tongue. For a moment, I even forget we’re in public. We break apart regretfully. The house lights flicker in warning and Vee sighs.

  “It’s too early,” she grouses.

  “The night’s still young,” Benoît says. “Where to next? Our last night in New York should be something special.”

  Vee looks at me mischievously. “I don’t think the deli’s open,” I say, wanting to go home, though our company tonight is fun. Vee laughs.

  “Of course it is,” she replies. “It’s early yet.” She takes Daniel’s free hand. “It has the best sandwiches in the city.”

  “A bit like our favourite café back home,” Benoît say
s.

  “Lead the way, ma femme bleue,” Daniel says.

  “Ma femme bleue,” I repeat, and Vee sticks out her tongue at me. “I like that.”

  “Just call me Blue,” she says, tugging on our hands. “I’m starving! Smoked meat sandwiches await!”

  The night air is chill, but no one seems to notice but me. I zip up my jacket, trying not to shiver. We take the subway back uptown, and sure enough, the deli is open, as Vee has said. The warmth hits me as we head inside and I’m grateful for it. Vee has already taken Daniel over to meet Kyle, but Benoît lingers by me.

  “Ça va?” he asks. “You seem a bit tired.”

  “It’s been a long day,” I admit as we sit at a booth on the back wall. The padded seat feels like heaven and I relax back into it with a sigh.

  “If we were in Paris I’d be having my first café right about now,” Benoît says, chuckling. “But fortunately I’ve gotten over the jet lag.”

  “I’d love to go back to Paris,” I remark. It’s been so long since I’ve been.

  “Come visit,” Benoît says. “We won’t be touring forever. And I’d bet Vee would like it; she could hang out with Daniel.”

  The pair of them drop into their seats and Kyle comes over to say hello.

  “I won’t even ask you what you want,” he deadpans to Vee. “But everyone else?”

  “Just a cup of tea,” I say. Anything more and I won’t be able to sleep.

  Kyle looks a bit startled, but nods.

  Daniel and Benoît are perusing the menu. “I’ll have the special,” Benoît says.

  “Et moi aussi.”

  I rise from my chair when Kyle has gone. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the deli’s small, cramped washroom, I look into the mirror. My face is pale and lined in the stark fluorescent light above the sink and I can see every wrinkle, every track of the crow’s feet at the edge of my eyes. God, when did I get so old? I open my purse and take out my compact. A bit of powder freshens my look, but I know it’s effort wasted. Old and tired, and the powder won’t hide it. I reapply my lipstick, watching as it settles into the faint creases that have appeared at the edges of my lips in the past few years. Slowly, mind you, but they’re there, and more will come. I blot my lips with a tissue and replace the makeup in my purse. Best to get back out there.

  When I return, the three of them are laughing over some joke. Vee clasps my hand when I take my seat next to her.

  “Oh Alex, I’m so glad we came tonight,” she says, wiping eyes moist from laughing with her free hand, smudging her mascara. She leans into me and her affection and the warmth from her body buoy my quickly declining mood. Only a little while longer, and then we can go back to the apartment.

  When Kyle comes out with our order, there’s an extra plate on his tray, a white ramekin on a paper doily. He sets down the plates of sandwiches first, and then presents me with this small white plate. It’s a crème brulée, my favourite dessert. I glance up at Kyle, puzzled. This has never been on their menu; I’d have known if it was.

  “Just a little something,” he says with a friendly grin. He retreats into the kitchen, and I pick up the spoon beside the ramekin, cracking the sugary, caramelized surface of the brulée. Beside me, Vee takes a huge bite of her sandwich and Daniel snorts in amusement.

  “Elle est faim,” he remarks to Benoît, who chuckles.

  “Aren’t you going to eat that?” Benoît asks me, indicating the brulée. I nod.

  “It’s just…”

  “Don’t you like it, Alex?” Vee asks, resting her head on my shoulder. “I called Kyle before we left for the deli, and he went and picked it up at the restaurant a few doors down. Just for you.”

  Unexpectedly, my heart is in my throat and my eyes prick with tears.

  “Alex?” Vee is uncertain, and Benoît and Daniel have stopped talking. All eyes are on me.

  I take a deep breath and dab at my eyes with the hem of my sleeve. “It’s nothing,” I manage to say. When my gaze meets Vee’s, she smiles at me, and I feel a surge of love. This woman loves me. At this moment, I don’t care that there are twenty years between us.

  “Ce n’est pas rien,” Benoît observes.

  “C’est l’amour,” Daniel answers.

  “Of course it is,” Vee says. “Right, Alex?”

  I nod. I do love her, more than anything.

  Vee’s Notebook

  (originally released in ANYTHING SHE WANTS, 2013, Ladylit Publishing)

  I found our story in those notebooks, the soft-covered Moleskines Alex always buys at the bookstore. The ones I keep in stock especially for her, even though my boss thinks she’s slightly nutty. She always buys them from me.

  ‘Sylvia, my brightest star, my desire. My lust, my soul.

  She was Lia to her co-workers at the bookstore, Sylvia to her mother, who clicked her tongue disapprovingly at her bright blue hair and her Monroe stud. But to me, she was simply Vee.

  Before you start to think I’m some sort of pervert, let me assure you. Vee is no nymphet, for all that I wish I had the talent of Nabokov.’

  I read about us as she slept beside me, that first kiss in the darkened doorway. She’d tasted of coffee, of sweetness. Of maturity and the woman I want to be some day. And, to be honest, the writer I wish I could be. But one step at a time. Maybe this notebook will be my first story.

  By the way, I love my combat boots with a passion, and I own more pairs of fishnet stockings than I can remember, but one day I want to be like her. All elegance and poise, icy cool like Catherine Deneuve in ‘The Hunger’. She wears her dark hair in a chignon, her face tastefully and dramatically made up, so sophisticated that I could stare at her all day.

  I put my hair in a chignon once, but since I’d just dyed it purple and blue, it looked absurd. A fancy hairstyle on a punk like me. Ridiculous. I was making so much noise that Alex burst into the bathroom to see what I was up to. And she laughed too. We laughed so hard we ended up on the floor, the tile cold on my bare ass. I’m taller than she is and her towels never seem to cover all of me.

  “Oh, Vee,” she said, wiping the tears of amusement from her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

  Her lips were on mine, soft yet demanding, and I let the towel drop, an invitation she couldn’t resist. I don’t know what she sees in me, my lanky body, the smallest breasts known to man, my knobby knees and skin so pale it has a blue tinge. I’m twenty-one and I look like an adolescent boy with A-cups.

  Alex tugged at my chignon, which had already started to come loose. I didn’t put it up right, trying to remember the steps on the video I found online. The hairpins clattered to the tile. She ran her fingers through my hair, spreading it over my shoulders in a purple and blue wave.

  “I love your hair,” she said, twining a lock through her fingers.

  “You should try it,” I said. “Except you should go dark blue, almost navy. Or maybe pink.”

  “On a woman my age?” she asked, raising a carefully plucked brow. She was still in her velvet dressing gown, but she had the poise of one of those old movie stars, like Elizabeth Taylor, or Marlene Dietrich. Even sprawled on the bathroom floor with me, she looked regal.

  “Why not? I’ll do it for you. There’s temporary color we can use.” I keep a stock of colors I’ve bought from a shop down in the East Village. I’ve used it myself when I couldn’t decide what color I liked best.

  I slid my hand into her gown, cupping her soft breast, my fingers teasing her nipple. Her breath caught as I pressed my lips to her neck, nibbling gently along her jugular. I loved to hear her gasping moans, the little whimpers in her throat. I pulled apart the two sides of her robe, baring her from head to toe.

  “Lay back,” I said, and she laughed again.

  “On the bathroom floor?” She obeyed and I hovered over her, my hair brushing her stomach. I traced the fine silvery marks just below her hips and my nose brushed the slight swell of her stomach below her belly button. My tongue darted out and I tasted h
er skin before trailing kisses down to her dark curls. When I spread her legs, my thumbs stroked the hollows of her inner thighs, already damp with arousal.

  “Vee,” she begged, tilting her hips up. She was pink and soft, her clit peeking out, and I swiped my tongue over it, giving her a teasing flick. I let my breath fan over her, then I took her in my mouth and her moan became a guttural cry, almost a sob. That I could do this to her--there’s no feeling in the world like it. I would spend all my days giving her pleasure if I could.

  Her hands twined through my hair and drew it back from my face. I glanced up. She watched me, her eyes glazed with passion, her lips parted. When I gently scraped her clit with my teeth, her head fell back. My fingers slid into her wetness, the muscles tightening around me. She was close already, so wet she drenched my hand.

  I curled my fingers and pressed up. Her grip on my hair tightened and I felt an ache at the roots, but it didn’t matter, because she came, her whole body stiffening, arching up off the floor.

  She melted into my embrace, her chest heaving. I inched up next to her and she smoothed my hair with her gentle hands.

  “So much for your chignon,” she said.

  I looked up at her, lifting my head from her chest where I’d pillowed it on her breasts. “If I asked you to dye my hair, would you?”

  Her hands stilled. “You just changed the color a few days ago.”

  This was going to hurt, but I had an idea. On her desk last night I’d spotted a garish orange and black invitation to a Halloween ball. It was from one of her big clients, someone who liked to invite his favorite freelancers to all the company bashes. I knew Alex hadn’t really intended to go. She liked to stay in most of the time. That’s something I didn’t realize about her until we started seeing each other. I’d only ever seen her at the bookstore.

  I wanted to go to this party.

  “I want to dye it a dark brown, like yours.”