by AnonYMous
And not if you've already invested quite a bit of time and energy into your subject. Oh no. Another photo flash outside Fannelli’s as I raised my hands (tilted upward) in what could, I realize, be misconstrued as a pleading gesture and that particular page in her forthcoming book turned over.
The next day after promising I'd call her, I did everything I could to resist leaving fifteen pleading messages on her machine. In the end, I left a message saying I couldn't see her that night, that some work had come up and that "I'd see her around." My hand was shaking. It took everything I had, which wasn't much, to make that call. My intention was never to call her again. Ever. I was going to use the same method I'd been taught to kick the booze. Keep it bite-sized. One hour at a time. One minute. Jesus, it was torture. My ego would tell me I was hurting her needlessly by not calling her. That I was hurting her. That she had to play hard to get. That was what girls had to do.
Anyway, I somehow got through another day and that night, at around 11:30pm,
she called me in the hotel. I was asleep. It had snowed earlier and I had tried to meet Telma, that lovely girl from work who I've seen a few times since (she's a flirt), but who didn't turn up that night.
When the phone rang, I woke up and who was I talking to? The source of my worst nightmare. She got me talking about some of the stuff I swore I'd never say to her. Ugh. I wince now just thinking about it. All that naive shit about Tom Bannister and my father and that she must be The One and how I had threatened to resign from my job if I wasn't sent to New York and...oh God. I was half-asleep and didn't know what I was saying. She encouraged me, of course, consoling me with things like "I didn't know that…"and "you should have said…" or "that's different." I took these barely audible utterances to mean, ‘there’s hope”
That’s the other thing I remember about our phone conversations. I could never fucking hear her. I'd be embarrassed asking her to repeat what she'd said. I spilled my guts out and in the end left it at;
"I'm not going anywhere under the banner of buddy."
I hung up, proud at least that I'd managed to initiate the ending of the call. That's how pathetic I had become. She ended the relationship and I ended a phone call. Not exactly 1:1 on the scoreboard, but it would have to do.
Until two days later.
I couldn't hold out. I called her and left a message, saying something about having thought about what she'd said and that I wanted to meet her for lunch. In my mind, lunch was less of a commitment than dinner. She left a message back saying we could meet for dinner that night Sunday "if I was feeling up to it." That fucking killed me. It implied that she knew her effect on me.
Exactly the effect.
I couldn't stop myself. I had to get my fix. I called her and we arranged to meet at a French restaurant not far from where she worked. She was preparing for an exhibition opening the following Wednesday. She was working quite hard. I suppose I should've taken that into account. I was trying to see it from her point of view. Guy turns up in New York, expecting her to drop everything for him just because it suited him to leave St Lacroix. A guy she was only lukewarm about to begin with. Now he was acting all hurt because she didn't want to have sex with him. I could see that.
The problem, though, was that there were these photographs being taken. Halfway through our conversation in the charming French restaurant on Lafayette, there was another camera flash. This time from a table on the opposite side of the room at which four people sat. They laughed and even waved. I couldn't be sure if the light was facing me or whether they'd just taken a shot of themselves. But in retrospect (where would we be without retrospect?) it fit the pattern. The people at the other table had bags. So what? Bags that were for equipment, not clothes. (Okay, maybe I'm stretching this one a bit thin).
Another shot was definitely taken that Sunday night. I even made a joke about it. I was telling her how my old partner and I had been on TV in London for an outrageous ad we'd done. I was trying to impress her. To let her know that she was dumping a fucking media genius. And I ended up telling her how much I had disliked my former creative partner, saying, "He's the one you should be trying to fuck up instead of me. He deserves it. He's not a good person. You and your friends should have a go at him." I nodded at the other table.
Now, you'll have to forgive me here because my memory tells me that she replied with a meaningful look,
"So, you know."
And then my memory goes on to tell me that I replied,
"Of course I know."
"Why are you doing it?"
"Because it's interesting to me," I said.
Now that could have meant anything, but I know what I thought it meant. And I do apologize because I can't even be sure this verbal exchange even took place. I did, however, mention my ex-partner and even told her where he worked in case she wanted to fuck-him-up. (By the way, I did hear that he'd recently visited New York for a wedding and that, consequently, had come to work here. Say no more.) Anyway, I paid the bill and explained to her that I was on expenses and that I was making more money just by being in New York. Hotel bills and every scrap of food were expensed. She seemed jealous of this.
Money was the only subject where she showed emotion. Her lovely eyes would widen when the subject came up. So what? Can't hold that against her. Women only love money so much because we men make it hard for them to get at it. They have to massage us and our egos to get it. Otherwise, they wouldn't even bother with us. Except maybe for the occasional fuck. Not unlike how we treat them.
We left the place. Not wanting to risk rejection, I didn't even try to kiss her on the cheek. I didn't want the friendship thing to become official. At least, this way there was still some hope of sex. So, I stood about two yards away from her (mind you, she wasn’t exactly trying to close the gap) and saying things like, I'll call you and see you soon
I prepared myself for the heartbreaking walk back to the hotel.
“Are you coming on Wednesday?"
I secretly leaped for joy.
"Oh yeah, I forgot, your exhibition. What's the address?"
Waving goodbye I stomped off as if I had a thousand other things to do in the direction of the Soho Grand.
In the meantime, I was working in one of the most famous advertising agencies in the world on two of their toughest accounts, Nikon cameras and Fortune magazine. Miraculously, it was going okay. The boss seemed happy. I couldn’t believe it because I was only working with half my cylinders.
So the big night of Aisling’s exhibition arrived and I was very nervous. I was going to meet her friends. In my mind I’m still her boyfriend. We’re just going through a bumpy patch. I mean, I didn't feel too confident about it. I had a nasty feeling that I would discover some stuff I wouldn’t like. I got there and the event was already up and running. I pushed my way through the impressive crowd of fashionable, comfortable looking people. People who appeared as if they were used to being loved (Strange thing to say, but that's how they looked to me...the sought-after). So I tried to find her and couldn't at first. But I could see the huge photo on the back wall of the bar.
That's all it was.
A big bar with a big wall space at the back. The shot was of skaters on ice taken at the Vanderbilt Centre and double exposed so that one image of skaters was superimposed over another in order to give an impression of movement. To me, it was reminiscent of the kind of shot you'd see from a photographer in the 1920’s or 1930’s. A Russian Man Ray or if Kandinsky had been a photographer. Expressive in the classic sense.
I was shocked that I liked it so much and pissed off. It meant she was more talented than I'd feared. Not only had she stolen my heart, but now she'd stolen the life I would have loved to live had I had the courage not to go into advertising.
I don't think this hit me consciously at the time, but I was uncomfortable. No. I was jealous. And to top it all off when I did find her she was holding a huge fucking Iris that someone had given her (some guy, no doubt) and a dirty great p
int of Guinness. A pint of Guinness. I hadn't even seen one in about four years, let alone one attached to a girl I loved. Something cracked under my feet.
I nodded politely as she introduced me to her friend. The tallest girl I had ever seen. She must have been six foot seven. I'm not joking, she was fucking huge. She had come from Maine specially to see her friend Aisling. I said that showed loyalty. She said rather infuriatingly that she did it because Aisling was going to be rich someday. I remember finding that odd.
So I got stuck talking directly to this girl’s midriff about sweet fuck-all with the two loves of my life: Guinness and Herself gliding around the bar pecking everyone on the cheek. Her boss had even turned up. Peter Freeman, it turned out, was a slightly cherubic gray-haired thing in loose jeans and woolen sweater. He looked much older than I'd imagined Early fifties. I remember being relieved and thinking, well, at least I don't have to worry about him.
I bought the tall girl a Bailey’s, and at my instigation, we sat at a little table because I felt so ridiculous looking up her nostrils while feigning interest in her life in Maine. All I wanted from her was information about her friend, my lover, the rising photographer. I got nothing, of course. We were sitting for a while when suddenly I felt a splatter of Bailey’s across my face and chest. I looked at her, incredulous. She was holding a plastic straw. She had flicked it at me. As I heard her apologize I realized there was a droplet on my bottom lip. Smiling, I carefully I wiped my chest and mouth. I was very aware of there only being the need to lick my lips and anything could have happened. As it was, I had arranged with my AA friend Adam to meet later if things got sticky. This, I decided, was sticky. It was good to have someone real I could go and meet rather than having to limp out under some invented excuse. I sat for a while longer and then after getting her another Bailey’s (ever the gentleman) I asked her to apologize to Aisling for me as I had a dinner-date.
Happy day. I got out of there. The tall girl was over-apologetic and tried to grab my arm as she bid me to sit down again. No way was I was staying just so I could be ignored more emphatically. Fuck that, I told myself and stepped into the welcoming March air. Superb.Within fifteen minutes Adam and I were walking against ferociously strong wind and rain over the Williamsburg Bridge. It was good for me. And him, too, I think. I kept replaying the Bailey’s moment in my mind. How the fuck could that have been an accident? I drank everything I could lay my hands on for over fifteen years and I never had booze splatter on me like that. Not by accident, anyway. It was too monstrous to suggest that she'd done it purposely. Too paranoid. So I forgot about it, sort of.
I didn't call Aisling the next day. I was convinced that I now had the measure of her and her crew. I'd met one or two of her friends (other than that tall thing) and felt justified in labelling them as wealthy, bored Irish. The only types for whom the humiliation of a Culchie (anyone outside of Dublin) still held any interest.
But I broke down the next day, called and left a message saying how much I'd enjoyed meeting her friends and that it would be lovely to have lunch again sometime (fucking idiot that I was). She, of course, left yet another message saying, yes, it was lovely to see me, too, and she'd love to have lunch or something, etc….
We ended up meeting for lunch at Cafe Habana on Prince and Elizabeth just around the corner from where she lived. I was there early, of course, and she turned up about three quarters of an hour late. She only lived around the fucking corner. She even drew attention to the fact. I shrugged it off, Mr. Tolerant, Mr. Understanding. The usual banter followed, nothing really said out loud, lots of bullshit about advertising. Then out of the blue she apologized for a rather sharp remark to me that night. It had the effect of a slap.
"If you’d had your way you'd have had the fucking mass-media down here."
This referred to my attempts to impress her with what I thought would be a good way to "launch" her opening. I wanted to have photographers from various media meccas like Vogue, Elle, and Vanity Fair at the opening. I even went so far as to suggest that she have the shot good and large on the wall so that any photos taken at the opening would have her work prominent in the background. I also remember saying that it would be great if a fight broke out in front of her shot. Because if a fight broke out and she "just happened" to have a camera set up there and she also "just happened" to get a good shot of the fight then that shot in itself could become one of the works. Also, as a media mercenary, I knew a shot like that would be difficult for any editor of any magazine to refuse. They have space on white pages to fill, too, just like the rest of us.
It was ironic that I actually gave her the idea. The thing is, of course, that it
would work best if you could involve someone well known in the fight.
But I'm jumping ahead again. You mustn't let me do that. So here she was apologizing for her remark, saying that it was because she had been nervous
about the opening.
I let it go. Of course I let it go. Then, I said something I regret.
"You can pay for this. You've been wanting to since I met you, it won't
break your heart."
Here's what she did.
She was rummaging in her wallet, probably waiting for me to tell her to put it away but on hearing the words "break” and "heart," she froze. Her eyes (oh, those eyes) lifted from the wallet as if they were about to latch onto mine but they stopped unnaturally. She seemed now to be staring at the floor. I knew she knew I was watching her. For a few beats she let them rest there and then, as if noticing something on the table, she let them rise that far blinking slowly and without moving her body or head those eyes now shifted up and sideways to look over my left shoulder until finally making the last diagonal ascent up my cheek to burrow into my sockets.
"I. Don't. Think. So."
That’s what she said. As if she knew she could kill me right there and then, but the timing wasn’t right. It was the discipline that frightened me. It meant that she was doing whatever she was doing for professional reasons. There would be no passion here. And therefore, there had been no passion before. The Shelbourne had merely been a necessary act; part of a pre-ordained tried and tested formula. Right down to the part where she tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of our lovemaking and posed like a naughty sixteen-year-old girl complete with a coquettish smile and nodding downwards at her body to ensure that I took away the intended mental snapshot. No one can say she didn't understand the nature of photography. The restraint she showed that lunchtime told me how deeply sophisticated she was, and made me want her even more.
To be honest, I had an idea I was being taken in but I wanted to be taken somewhere...anywhere. After all, if this was what she wanted and I could give it to her
then why not? I was in love with her, wasn't I? Also, I was enthralled. I'd been watching videos in St Lacroix (French films) for two years and hadn't come across anything as interesting as this. And there was always the outside possibility that I might get laid again. But in reality, I was the fish and she was the angler. It was just question of what she
wanted to me to do next.
What she wanted me to do next was accompany her to an exhibition in the New Guggenheim on Broadway. This we did. Only one thing worth mentioning here. When we arrived at one of the cross streets, I forget which one, she spun round as if to save me from walking in front of traffic and hit me really hard in the chest. I mean, really fucking hard.
For a second I couldn't breathe. I was dazed, I'd already lost about a stone from shock. I read somewhere that when someone is in emotional shock the area around the heart loses some of its protective fat and is therefore dangerously exposed. One well-aimed punch can not only be very painful but, when the person who has been in shock starts to put the weight back on, the heart stays bruised and this can lead to aortal fibrillation. It's not life threatening, but it is uncomfortable.
It hurt, but I pretended it didn't.
Next port of call on my own personal voyage of discovery
was the Chess Café. Yes, they have such a thing in New York. In Soho. It was awful. We were strolling around some of the most romantic real estate on the globe, and I might just as well have been in hell. I was right beside the girl of my dreams, but also the source of some of the worst pain I have ever experienced. In the Chess Café you paid a dollar to rent a table and you could play chess for as long as you liked. They served coffee and true to chess-player neutrality, it was one of the few places left where you were not only allowed to smoke, but actively encouraged. All that frowning looked good through plumes of cigarette smoke.
She beat me easily, and I found myself squirming in my creaky chair just like I'd done in Fanelli’s. She leaned back as if mentally warming her hands again, just like she'd done in Fanelli’s. I tipped over my king in the second game. She looked up all hurt and cheated. Hurt because I was cutting short her enjoyment. Cheated because she was probably planning a long drawn-out death for me and now I had killed myself and denied her the pleasure. Also, it must have shown her how I played the life game – I'd abstain rather than prolong pain. She protested too much. Like it was significant. Like I'd hit a nerve.
"Finish the game," she cried.
I said something about not wanting to prolong the agony and complimented her on how good she was at chess.
“Why? Because I beat you?”
By now, I was almost limping. I was mentally and emotionally in tatters. One more blow, and I would have started crying. Bawling in the street. Just one more remark and the hairline cracks behind my eyes would begin firstly to squirt and then to gush and finally a deluge would canalize the thin streets of Soho.
I had my good friend and mentor Dean to meet at 6:30 and I told her so. I was never so grateful, and yet heartbroken, to get away from her that afternoon. I didn't have the courage to even kiss her cheek. I feared one last rejection would push me over the edge. I stomped away again filled with rage, confusion, fear, love and relief. We had talked about seeing a movie during the week.