And then there was Dave. Who would be here any minute. I was looking out for his usual dark town car. And soon after his arrival, he would make me an offer I wasn’t supposed to be able to refuse. He had me; he had the twin threat of the career and my shameful flight from the sight of my lover’s deceit. Cut the crap, I thought. He knows how to win and that’s by either stepping on the losers or tying them to you with a lifeline. “Oh everybody plays the game”—the beginning of the lyric, as said by The Strokes, my pragmatic grandmother, and a million other people. And the end of the line in the song—“if you don’t you’re called insane.” Fuck. At least the song was ironic. I hoped. I imagined Trevor looking at me sorrowfully. Why Thursday? Why not now? I could use some backup.
And just as I was about to stumble back up the street in my heels, I saw the car. Showtime. I stopped short and looked around. Funny how no one noticed, no one cared. It was just the massed assemblage in my head, all catcalls and advice, who were paying attention. I tried to tune it down to a low buzz as I prevented myself from going to the car. Let him come to you. Act as though you just arrived. Slowly. Fuck, who taught me this shit, I wondered? And why has it been of so little assistance? A retro punk rocker pushed past me, all piercings and Mohawk. If you don’t you’re called insane. Easy to say.
Dave had exited the car and caught sight of me once the green spike of hair had gone past, and smiled as he strolled up. Christ alive, was he taking even more time with his walk than usual? It was a peacock pigeon mating strut. I half expected him to turn around and fluff out his feathers. And of course, I had to wait and watch. I smiled, hoping it looked genuine. Laughing at the strutting peacock was never a good survival strategy. I breathed in and tried to feel super feminine. Needy. Dangerous. Seductive.
“Dave! So good to see you on this side.” We stopped for the usual French air kisses. His seemed to be landing dangerously close to my mouth. Possession, already. I tried to swallow down the sudden bile in my throat. This wasn’t me. This was me. Act as if.
“Lily. You look lovely. That’s a beautiful dress.” He ran a slow finger down my neck towards the deep neckline and stopped. I shuddered, but it wasn’t with desire. His eyes flashed slightly anyway. “You clean up so well.” He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His eyes spoke a question that he had already answered. I tried to look blank. It had worked for Garbo. Let him project. I forced out a tense smile, and hoped he read my nervous swallow as desire. He took my arm. “Come my dear. Let’s go have a lovely dinner and talk about our future plans.”
He opened the door to the restaurant and as usual, was greeted by the maître d’ like a long-lost friend. I nodded and smiled some more, watched myself being appraised, watched Dave slip him some bills as he took our coats, watched us being watched as we paraded to our table, felt Dave’s arm slink about my shoulders, protectively, possessively, in full view of the other diners, who were memorizing our posture in our chairs at one of the best tables. Predictable, choreographed, exciting—except I felt hollow, like some kind of defective Christmas cracker—and I wished I could feel I warranted the jealousy and curiosity that was hanging in the air. I looked up to see a blonde with superb highlights purse her lips and turn back to her companion with a shrug. Whatever. I faced Dave again, and tried to gaze at him, winningly. He glanced at me as if to say, see? See all the good things that come from being with me? And then he gestured towards the waiter and ordered a bottle of wine, in Greek. Show off. I forgot to even consider that I knew enough Greek to know what he was saying. But it would have been obvious anyway. The waiter bowed and scraped, and Dave twisted slightly in each direction, just long enough to weigh up who was on either side, and let them know that he was there.
We sat there for a few minutes, like any other awkward date couple, and talked about the weather, the news, another band that the magazine was running a story on. Tits from Oz came up—apparently there had been a big fight after the gig, and now she was staying with some producer, who had punched one of the guys in the band who tried to interrupt his tale of how to make her a star. I laughed. It was bound to happen. She would be easily convinced of her own star potential and follow anyone who promised to make it come alive. I felt bad for the other guys, briefly, imagining them back on their Qantas flight, their big break broken, and a lot of nights gigging to drunks ahead of them, no tits in sight. My effort was running as a kind of last interview could-you-see-it-coming type of piece. A by-line. That was good, although I felt superstitiously reluctant to let my name get linked up with their failure. Then the wine came, and their tragedy evaporated as the bottle was uncorked and delicately poured, artfully swirled, apportioned to me for my pleasure. Dave winked at me over the rim of the glass as we toasted to our future. In business, in business, I murmured in my head.
I breathed in the scent of the wine, being sure to tip my head forward, letting my hair brush my cheek, the curve of my back revealing cleavage. I heard him breathe in. A dance, that’s all it was, a dance. First one way, then the other. A formula. And for all my seeming expertise, I was really such a novice at this. I liked to go on feelings. Most people relied on the ritual, relieved there were steps to follow. Ideally, I supposed, it was a bit of both. And luck. So I listened and responded. And drank. One thing I couldn’t argue with was the quality of the wine. Fuck, it was hard to have high rent tastes on a spiritual budget. It was a lovely golden ruby color, dark and warm all at once—and it tasted that way too. The waiter came and poured more, which reminded me I needed to slow down. It was only fun for men to get women drunk if they saw it as a challenge, not if they were racing after them breathlessly to catch up, glass still full.
Dave, on the other hand, was puffed up like a winner. He beckoned to the waiter, pointed expansively at dishes, asking for slight variations. When the plates came, he tasted the herbs and oil on the organic feta shipped in that morning from Greece, applauding the choices of the chef. I tasted everything and nothing. It was easy to admire his knowledge, his command of the situation, his willingness to display his sensual enjoyment of the food. I tried, anyway. Could I do this, for the rest of my life? Nibbling at tiny plates, discussing which bands we would make and break, or that he would, returning home to have artistically mechanical sex on fancy sheets, worrying about my thighs with my friends at Soulcycle the next day?
Sure I could. Yes, I’d seen it break my grandmother, but it was hard to know whether she would have wound up the same if she hadn’t hooked on to my grandfather. Canny. Clever. His needs paramount. Play the game or be insane. By the time we were on Greek brandy and coffee, I had erased all my doubts—along with my credit card balance. I would still write, of course. Of course.
Then I noticed his hand on my arm. How long had it been there? I’d answered mechanically, yet attractively to everything, I was certain of it. Hadn’t I been playing nicely? But he was now staring at me with an unwelcome intensity. This was it then, was it? Yes, there was his expensively shaved upper lip, starting to move. I waited, with an audience-like expectation of a show to come. My role in it was already blotted out by the brandy, of which I took yet another sip. Slowly. Slowly. I looked over at him, and put on my best blank smile of appreciation. I was a little more drunk than I needed to be. Damn.
He raised his glass to me. “Lily, I’m proud of you.” His hand caressed mine, in what was supposed to be a soothing way. Instead, it felt like I was being pinned down. Manicured flesh.
I took another taste of the brandy, and found myself holding on to the glass tightly. “Are you? Why? The article? I think it turned out very well, really.”
He smiled at me, indulgently. “No, my dear. Because you succumbed to the appeal of the mass market, but then you came to your senses.” He picked up my hand and kissed it. I wanted to look to my right, I was sure that we were being watched. Dave continued. “You’re thinking about your happiness long term. Now, of course, you can play whatever game you want. But in your forties? Fifties? Look at Courtney Love. So much work. S
o little time. And for what?” He sat back and folded his hands together. I felt like I was being lectured. “Women need protecting.” I raised my glass to protest. “No, Lily, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all. You’re talented. Independent. All those qualities should be nurtured, not extinguished.”
I nodded. Dutifully. The horrible thing was that on some level, I agreed with him. It was like sitting on one of those oceanside marinas in the TV shows from the 80s where the boat pulls the piers away. It was all tumbling down around me. Stupid.
I started to say something, but he raised his hand for silence, and I felt my lips pinch together. Fine. I didn’t really know what I was going to say anyway. His hand was on mine again. “Lily, I want to look after you. I know how independent you are. I like that. Yet, perhaps there are limits to freedom, right?” He paused, and his face took on a serious air. “I have a proposal for you. I own a beautiful place I don’t use. I want you to see it.” He looked proud. “Let’s take our time. You can stay there—you don’t have to move in with me. Not yet, anyway.”
Now it was my turn to be astonished. “You…you want me to live with you? Go out with you?” I grimaced. Even to my ears that sounded lame. “I mean, us, together? Seriously?”
He gave that low chuckle that he had, and pointed to our glasses and nodded to the waiter, who seemed to arrive instantly with the bottle. I started to say something, and he tilted his head towards the waiter, indicating that I should wait until he had left us. I couldn’t see how anything we were saying wasn’t going to be public knowledge anyway, seeing as our table was close enough to be eavesdropped upon by at least half a dozen tables, but I waited.
The waiter left, and I started up again. “Dave…”
He interrupted. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. We talked about this before.” He held my hand in his. “You came to me for help in London. You wanted to leave. I’m the one you asked for help.”
It was true. But… “You had sent me there. I felt you were the best person to talk to.”
“And I was. I am. Lily, listen. I’ve cared about you for a while now. You’re such a diamond in the rough. I am the perfect person to polish you, show off your highlights. Look at Tristan. What did he do? Use you. He saw what you had, and he was willing to go back to that D list actress despite it all.” I listened, unable to speak. It was like a train crash, everything happening in slow motion. “And, let’s be honest, you’re not a teenager, Lily. I can’t really see you as a hanger-on. You’re an elegant, intelligent woman. And you deserve better.”
“It wasn’t like that…,” I began, but I trailed off. What was it like? Nothing I could discuss with him. Maybe I’d better buy time, a voice in my head muttered. Yes. “What about the piece? If I say no, or maybe, or not yet, then what happens?”
He looked at me, crestfallen. “Is that the only thing I have that is worth anything to you?”
I realized that I’d actually hurt him. Kicked the preening pigeon. Made my own desires a little too clear. Idiot. “No, no. No. Of course not.” I shook my head. I would have to touch him. It couldn’t be that bad. He looked very clean. I stared at his hand. All the hairs on it were in a row, as though they had been combed. I could smell the slightest tang of citrus and wood cologne. There was nothing not to like. But I couldn’t get my hand to rest on top of his. It felt like the air was thicker near him, a force field. “Dave. You’re a very attractive, successful man. I would have thought you would want to be sure I was choosing you for you. You as a person. A mentor.” Ok, maybe that was a bit thick. No, he looked completely mesmerized again. “I don’t want you to think that I’ve…” Sold out? Given up? “…done, decided this to get a piece on the cover.” Or anywhere, I thought. Fuck.
His smile was slow, and victorious. “Naturally not. That’s why I wanted to enumerate all the, let’s call them qualities, I think you find attractive. That answer your…needs. Aside from the writing job.” He bent closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s only made you more interesting, you know, this whole thing with Tristan. If you could please him…” He moved slightly in his chair. “I know you. I know you’ll be good, we’ll be good.” His voice was so low, I could barely make out the words, whispered across the table. “Let’s go look at the apartment. You don’t have to stay, or say yes right away. But come. Come with me. It’s beautiful, like you.” He stared at me, as though willing me to do what he asked. It was all possible. All I had to do was reach out my hand.
He was leaning in closer now, drawing me in, but the candle flickered and blew out as a gust of wind from the open door blew through the restaurant. A waiter rushed over to relight it, and I took the chance to lean back, and retreat slightly. I looked over towards the door. A group of people had come in, but through them, one person had pushed through and was heading our way. A few people nudged each other. All I could do was stare. Leather jacket over tight black jeans and a multi-colored shirt that practically shouted “look at me” followed by “don’t try this at home.” His hair was its usual artful mess and he was smiling at me, having spotted us. Dave looked at me, then turned his head in the same direction just in time for Tristan to slap him on the shoulder and slide into the seat next to his.
“Dave! Lily. What a pleasure. Your secretary told me I’d find you here. Brandy? Great idea.” He turned to the waiter who seemed to be either hovering or invisible. “Same, please. And a coffee. Medium sweet.” His eyes raked over me, exploratory. He seemed to make his mind up. “Greek food really is one of your things, isn’t it? That restaurant in London was just fantastic. We have to go back.”
Dave, jolted out of his pre-coital striking position, was taking some time to adjust to the new situation. Tristan was sitting back, one leg crossed over the other, having shrugged off his jacket to reveal the rest of his shirt, sleeves rolled up, his wrists crisscrossed with bracelets. The waiter looked delighted when Tristan twisted around to help him with the coffee and told him to pour himself a brandy. “Night’s almost over, right? You can relax a little. Everyone gets a chance to chill out eventually, right, Dave?”
I wondered if they were going to come to blows. Dave looked rigid in his seat, ready to kill, while Tristan was all expansion and energy. One cold, one fire. Tristan raised the glass to his lips. “Chin chin.” His throat muscles moved under his skin, and I found I was staring at him, as he lowered the glass and ran his tongue over his lips for a second, his eyes burning into me. The warmth that flooded between my legs was as instantaneous as it was surprising, and I looked down, almost expecting it to be obvious, as I moved my legs together slightly. Tristan was smiling at me, like he knew a secret. Dave was even angrier. He tapped the table and Tristan and I both looked at him.
“Lily and I were just discussing her future.”
Tristan’s body was instantly a little more taut. I felt sick. “Were you? And is it as bright as it should be?” He winked at me. I tried to smile back.
“I’ve got a nice apartment she can use. I’ll be getting it ready while she’s on tour with you.” His hands rested on the table, as though he’d just put down the pen on the contract.
Tristan considered this for a moment. “Well, that’s quite an offer.” He studied me. “Lily, have you seen your gilded cage yet?”
I gritted my teeth. “No, I haven’t. And it’s an offer, not an acceptance.”
Dave laughed. “Really, Lily? I thought we were about to…seal the agreement, as it were, just before Tristan dropped by to say hello. I enjoy this business so much…” he said, a slight metallic tang to his words, “…the stars come to me.”
Tristan bristled. “Yes they do. Because you need something to write about. Lovely suit, by the way. Dior? You must really want to impress Lily here.”
“Obviously,” he said slowly, looking at Tristan’s clothes, “not your style. But she’s worth impressing, naturally we agree.”
“No, I prefer Dolce. But impressing Lily? Of course. Maybe we just differ on what to do to get her attenti
on.” He glanced at me, as if for confirmation, and continued. “But you don’t want to force the issue, I don’t think she likes it.”
Dave shot back. “Meaning?”
Tristan leaned back and drank some coffee, placing the cup carefully back in the saucer and turning the handle to four o’clock. His fingers tapped on the china for a moment. “I didn’t blackmail her.”
“No, having sex with your ex was appeal enough, apparently.” Dave looked grim.
Tristan’s fist was clenched on the table. “Nothing happened.”
“Really? Well whatever Lily here saw, it was enough to make her mind up.”
Tristan looked at me. “Did it? And have you decided in favor of the tasteful condo?” He was suddenly silent. Contempt was written all over his face. Dave looked smug and distant.
At that moment, I hated both of them. I bit back what I was about to say. I raised my head to look at them. They were both waiting, waiting for an answer, both anticipating success. I started to speak, and stopped. No, I thought. Time. Take your time. Whose life is this that they’re discussing? I drank the rest of my brandy down and rose to my feet, unsteadily. “Yes, I’ve decided.”
They both looked up at me, the same uncertainty written across both their faces. I almost laughed. I waved for the waiter to bring my coat. Then I looked at back at them. “Yeah. I’ve decided. To leave. Fuck both of you.”
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