She looked at my expression, which must have spoken volumes. “Don’t worry! Come on, let’s go get another drink.” Cecily, my new friend and ally, pulled at my arm, trying to save me from myself. But I wouldn’t follow. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They stood together, still. She had taken a few steps back, I noticed, but then he had moved in to close the gap. Or had he? Cecily tugged my arm again and I reluctantly began my retreat to the bar—but not before I noticed Malena’s long, fragile fingertips graze the side of Colin’s arm. Or did they?
“What would you like?” Cecily asked me as we sat down at the bar. “Maybe a tequila shot to get rid of all that unpleasantness, huh?”
“You read my mind,” I said, trying to manage a half smile. Cecily moved down the bar to get the bartender’s attention.
“What unpleasantness?” I felt Colin’s arm slip gently under my shirt. It was cool and seemed to salve the wound. Somewhat.
“You’re back,” I said.
“I missed you,” he whispered in my ear.
“Your friends are pretty amazing,” I whispered back, leaning into him, wishing away the previous apparition.
“You’re sweet,” he said, “but I bet they look pretty humble next to all your high-powered media friends.”
“Colin, that’s not true!” I chastised him. Did he really think I had high-powered friends? How funny that we were both intimidated by each other’s worlds!
“I really like Cecily. She’s great,” I said.
“Yeah, Cecily’s always been special,” he said, focusing on her at the end of the bar.
“Hey kids, ready for a change in venue?” Caleb had appeared and threw an arm around each of us, ready to go. I’d met him in person no more than forty-five minute ago, but his familiarity now seemed perfectly natural.
“Oh, man. You’re drunk already?” Colin teased.
“I’m not drunk at all, Mr. Bates. I’m merely relaxed and delighted to be in the company of friends. I’m high on life, if you will.”
“Right. Does life usually present itself to you in the form of a martini glass?”
“He’s quite the clever writer, isn’t he, Lena?” He looked at me with a wink and then glanced back at Colin. “You’ve got yourself quite a woman there, Mr. Bates.”
“Yes, I do. Yes, I do.” And then I felt his arms circle around me, followed by a sweet kiss on the cheek. It was almost as if I’d never seen the golden apparition. Almost.
And just like that, I was officially part of the group— Caleb, Gavin, Grace, Cecily and one or two other alternates. Gavin would call me when he couldn’t reach Colin. Caleb called when he saw something particularly inane on television (he joked that I was responsible for everything he saw on TV since I was the only one he knew who worked in the industry). He and I would laugh about that day’s idiotic Jerry Springer display, I would gently chide him for his lack of a job, and then we’d make our inevitable plans to meet up that night. It felt so natural, so easy, so right.
It was as if I’d inherited a whole network of lifelong friends—complete with quirky, absurd nicknames, inside jokes and comfortable drunken repartee. All this and luscious Colin to boot? It was too much. Sometimes I worried that it was too good to be true.
And, in fact, it was. That much would be made clear to me just a few days later when I stepped into Vanessa Vilroy’s apartment for the first time.
I had arrived alone—my first mistake. The apartment was the most beautiful loft I had ever seen. It was not merely loftlike as so many in the city purported their glorified studios to be. It was a gigantic, hardwood floor, stainless-steel kitchen, private elevator, exposed brick, postmodern Architectural Digest specimen. It was what money and style could create if someone was blessed enough to have both.
The elevator had deposited me right inside the living room, where I stood alone, drinking in the fabulousness of it all. I found myself walking forward, startled by the reverberating tap of my heels. My shoes suddenly sounded cheap and tinny in this apartment.
A young woman appeared, her face stoic.
“Hi,” I said brightly.
“Hello,” she said, waiting a beat.
She seemed neither fearful that someone was standing in her monstrous living space nor as if she were expecting guests. She just seemed slightly annoyed.
“I’m a friend of Colin’s. I—”
“Is he on his way up?”
“Well, no. I mean, he will be. He didn’t… We didn’t come together….” I felt like an intruder. I felt like I was lying.
“You are Vanessa, aren’t you?” I’d started to worry that I was in the wrong place, since I seemed to be the only guest at this party.
“Yes,” she said. And then she turned, looking over her shoulder. “Would you like a drink?”
“Oh yes, please,” I said, a bit too quickly, I thought. I watched her walk away. She was wearing faded Levi’s that fit perfectly and a man’s dress shirt. She was beautiful, of course, tall and slender, with glowing olive skin and straight black shiny hair.
“Here you go,” she said, handing me a glass of white wine.
“Thanks.” I smiled.
We stood there. I felt awkward. She seemed relaxed.
“That’s a beautiful canvas.” I looked over at a just-begun painting propped up against the wall.
“I just started it this morning.”
A connection? Worth a shot, I began walking over to the painting.
“Would you mind?” Vanessa stopped me short. “Your shoes?”
“Oh, of course.” I froze, thinking she was insulting my cheap, tinny footwear, then I looked down and saw her bare (perfect) feet. I slowly, carefully, removed my heels as if I were being instructed by a hijacker. I stood there in my unpedicured feet, realizing that she had just stripped me of my one advantage—height. She now towered over me like an older, prettier, teenage sister. I was the awkward adolescent.
“Thanks.” She looked satisfied.
I’d known Vanessa before. She was the kind of girl men lusted for, were intimidated by, and often left their girlfriends for—only to be tossed aside when she became bored (and she always got bored). She was the kind of girl who could look over a woman with one blisteringly critical sweep of the eye and leave her wondering for days what was so obviously amiss.
I hated her. And so of course Colin loved her. Several excruciating moments later, when he finally walked through the door, the two embraced warmly and Vanessa’s icy veneer seemed to melt down around them as they laughed and kissed, making some inscrutable shorthand joke that I was sure wouldn’t make sense to me had I implored them to break it down for me word by word.
“Hey, Lena.” Colin pecked me on the cheek lightly as if drained by his grand display of passion with Vanessa.
“Hey,” I said, but he had already headed out to the kitchen. Obviously he knew his way around.
Another awkward silence followed as Vanessa and I stood together, alone once more.
“Those are such great paintings—” I would try again.
“Hey, Vanessa,” Colin cut me off as he came out of the kitchen.
“Yes?” She smiled. She smiled?
“These paintings are fucking awesome. When are you having another show?”
Of course. She was the painter. The artist. The visionary. I knew it—she was “the art school girl,” the bohemian rich girl who never wore makeup, never had a zit, had affairs with hot European professors, wore tank tops braless and managed to look sultry rather than slutty. I felt sure she took avant-garde photographs of herself nude.
Moments later, the door opened and the rest of the party spilled inside in one jovial pile. There was Caleb, Gavin, Grace and Cecily, of course—but also a couple of sullen, lank-haired boys clutching portfolio bags as well as one of the better-looking men I’ve ever seen. He wore a loosened tie and a cashmere coat and also happened to be a tenant of the gorgeous loft—Vanessa’s significant other and, by all accounts, her home’s primary funder.
And he was friendly. “Hey there, I’m Christopher,” he said, shaking my hand warmly. How could he be so nice? He and Vanessa together, I thought, were like sweet and sour.
And so the night continued. Gradually I sifted through the various relationships, delineating who knew whom from Andover or summers at the Cape, or freshman dorms at Yale. One thing was clear—they had all met before. And, it seemed, the disparate lot had engaged in an unprecedented amount of collective revelry over the years. Stories were ignited by the mention of a seemingly innocuous phrase or word—asparagus! for example—which would then prompt an explosion of giggles and a string of nonsensical recollections—“And you ate the whole thing!” “He asked what time it was!” “She wore the purple sweater!” Colin had gradually slid off the ottoman next to me to assume his current position on the floor where he sat Indian-style as Vanessa playfully rubbed his feet.
“Hey, are you okay?” Cecily had sat down next to me.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I lied.
“Look, Vanessa can be a lot to take at first.” She looked at me meaningfully. “But she’ll mellow out. She always does.”
“God, I hope so.” I felt some of my pent-up tension release.
“Look, we’re a tight group. It can be hard to find your way in with everyone.”
“Thanks, I’m so glad you said something. Really.” How could one of Colin’s female friends be so wonderful and warm and the other so cruel and cold? Even more strangely, I could tell from their interaction that Vanessa and Cecily were pretty close.
“Let’s play a game!” one of the pair of sullen, lank-haired boys exclaimed, clearly unwound by his fourth glass of wine. His boyfriend was the only other “outsider” present aside from myself, but we had yet to even make eye contact, let alone speak to each other. It was as if he sensed Vanessa’s contempt for me and shunned me to save himself.
A game? My stomach sank. Games required winners and losers—picking teams, tests of knowledge, revelations of ignorance…this couldn’t be good.
“I know—Truth or Dare!” Vanessa exclaimed.
The memories of countless adolescent slumber parties, complete with wood-paneled rec rooms, HBO late-night soft porn, and the unsanctioned use of shaving cream filled my head. At the same time, the suggestion was completely natural—Vanessa was the grown-up, urban version of the same twelve-year-old girl with advanced breast development and powers of exclusion that haunted every preadolescent girl’s life.
Before anyone could object, she quickly devised a list of “rules,” which she delivered with a jolt of authority that seemed to make everyone forget she had just invented them.
“Okay, so I’ve put everyone’s name in a hat. Colin, you’ll draw first and then we’ll go around the room clockwise,” she instructed.
I felt Colin lean back toward me, his hand resting on my foot. I leaned forward, lightly massaging his shoulder—until I realized that he was just reaching for the hat to draw a name.
Vanessa was perched on a velvet ottoman, her legs tucked beneath her. All eyes were on her—a situation in which she seemed extremely comfortable.
“Caleb, you’re first,” Colin said. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” the room said in unison.
“Oh, I’m that predictable, am I?” And then he grinned. “Dare.”
Eruption of hilarity.
For the next ten minutes or so, Caleb entertained the crowd by drinking five shots of tequila in a row, followed by five raw chili peppers. The dare had only required three.
“Oh, Caleb, Jesus!” Colin was clapping his hands, nearly as drunk—I imagine—as Caleb.
“You’re next, man!” Caleb sputtered back.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t.
“Lena?” Vanessa purred my name with faux sweetness. “Truth or dare?”
My mind was swimming. I generally always picked “dare” in these situations. After all, what’s a little physical embarrassment among friends? Certainly it was preferable to the soul-bearing torture that a public Q&A session could bring about.
“What’s it going to be?” Caleb yelled out. The crowd was restless, hungry for a sacrifice. How had I ended up here, I wondered, tipsy and traumatized in Vanessa Vilroy’s Tribeca loft?
“Truth.” I heard the word, but I was fairly sure that I had not uttered it. “Right, Lena?” Vanessa said. “You’re a truthful person after all.”
I didn’t respond. I just sat there, dumbfounded. Who was she?
“Okay, truth,” I said, looking Vanessa directly in the eye.
She returned the look with a slow, foreboding half smile, “That’s what I thought.” She didn’t have to hesitate to think of a question. “If you found out that the love of your life still carried a torch for an ex-girlfriend, what would you do?”
I felt Colin shift beside me. Or did I? What was going on here? I was getting angry now.
“Hypothetically?” I said.
“Of course,” she smiled.
“I need more details.” I wanted to shift the spotlight—that was my strategy. It was not a good one.
“Well.” She curled her arms around her feline body. “Suppose you find out that your ‘hypothetical’ boyfriend is still pining for his first love, though he would never ever tell you. He’s a great guy, after all.”
“Well, Vanessa, he can’t be that great a guy if he’s not being honest,” Christopher spoke up. I love you, Christopher!
“He’s a fabulous guy, dear,” Vanessa shot back, “but you know how men can be.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me, Vanessa.”
“Just answer the question, dear.” She smiled at me sweetly.
The room had melted out of focus around us. It was just the two of us, my new nemesis and I.
“Your question, I’m afraid, has a faulty premise.”
Vanessa straightened her back. She seemed thrown. I felt empowered.
“You see, the love of my life,” I said, and paused for effect. My eyes locked with hers. “Would never stray.”
I took a sip of wine and coolly sat back in my chair.
“He shifted.”
“Stop it,” Tess cautioned.
“His ass was probably just falling asleep,” Parker offered.
Tess shot Parker a look.
“Don’t you think you might have been reading into the lean a little bit?” Tess asked.
“It was a shift,” I corrected her. “Right when Vanessa asked me the question about ‘the love of my life carrying a torch for someone else.’ It really felt like she was trying to tell me something.”
“Look, Lena, you’re in the middle of the dance right now. Don’t anticipate his every move. Just follow the music,” Tess instructed me.
The dance. That was Tess’s word for the period of time when an infatuation, a tryst, any sort of connection, could sink or swim. It was that period of hesitant phone calls and nervous dates; frenzied sex followed by awkward conversation—all of those initial experiences that mix together in a confused stew, tossed at random, ultimately either falling inward like a soufflé or very, very rarely, miraculously, coalescing into a fragile gossamer connection, known more commonly as “a relationship.”
“But we never danced.” I looked at Tess askance. “We clicked right from the start.” I searched her eyes. “We bypassed the dance.”
She looked at me, brows furrowed, concern creasing her face. But why was she concerned? I was done with that phase. I was in a relationship—the type of relationship I had always wanted. And yet, here I was, back at the table with Tess and Parker, psychoanalyzing Colin’s changes in posture.
“Lena, you can’t avoid the dance—as much as I know you would like to.” Tess put her hand on mine. “It’s like watching a movie—eventually the lights have to come on.”
“Oh Jesus, what are you guys talking about?” Parker reached past me for the sugar tray.
“We’re talking about Lena and her problem with Colin.”
“Well,�
� Parker said flatly, emptying a steady stream of Equal packets into her coffee. “I’m not convinced that Lena has a problem with Colin.”
“Really?” I said, doubtful that Parker had even absorbed much of the conversation between her frantic cell phone calls and PalmPilot inputting.
She raised her head abruptly. “Lena, you met a friend of Colin’s who you feel didn’t mesh with you. Big deal. Don’t start analyzing it to death or it will be about Colin.”
“But, Parker—” I had to interrupt.
“Don’t but me…” She looked serious. I shut up. “You will mess this up if you keep living in your head this way.”
“Living in my head?”
“Look, I love you dearly—you know that. But you’ve got to realize that life doesn’t always read like a Jane Austen novel.”
With that, she gulped her sweetened coffee and rose to her feet, smoothing her Celine skirt. She smiled down at the two of us. “I’ve got to run to yoga. Some annoying hippie chick has been stealing my spot when I’m not there early enough. So fucking annoying!” And she was off.
“Yoga really has mellowed her out, hasn’t it?” Tess joked, but I didn’t respond. “Hey, Lena, don’t let this Vanessa girl get you down. Just take it as it comes. It actually sounds like things are going pretty well with you and Colin.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Maybe I did overreact.” I thought for a moment.
“Maybe a little, I think,” she said.
“It’s just so hard. His whole world can be a little intimidating.”
“Lena, I know that world. I grew up in it. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I guess. I can’t believe you haven’t even met him yet,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. Has Jake met him?” Tess asked.
“Oh my God, Jake!” I caught my breath.
“What’s wrong?” Tess said, alarmed.
“Oh, Tess, I just remembered. He asked me to go to the movies with him like a week ago and I totally forgot to call him back,” I said, reaching for my phone. “I’ll be right back.” I hurriedly got up from the table to make the call. I tried all of his numbers, but all I got was voice mail. I left several long, apologetic messages and made my way back to Tess.
Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe Page 10