Moments Of Beauty

by J B Heller

  Someone is pounding on my door. And I’m in no shape to answer it. We’ve only been here for what, maybe three hours, and I’ve already cleaned out the mini bar and started on the bottle of gin I had room service deliver.

  The pounding continues, “If you don’t open this door right now, I’m letting myself in!” Bee calls.

  I should have known it was her, but in my current state, thinking coherently isn’t exactly my forte.

  Seconds later, she comes stomping into the lounge area where I’m presently sprawled across the plush grey couch. Her eye narrow dangerously, “You’re drunk?” she asks, her tone full of disappointment and accusation.

  I grin and nod, “Yep.” The nodding was a bad idea, now my head is spinning, or is it the room that’s spinning?

  Next thing I know Bee is in my face, clicking her fingers right in front of my nose. My eyes cross trying to focus on her fingers.

  “Oh my god, you’re fully tanked. How did you get this drunk so quickly? Did you start drinking as soon as we got here?” she asks.

  Again, I grin and nod, “Yep.” Damn it, I shouldn’t have nodded again. I frown as everything shifts around me and my stomach curls.

  Bianca’s lip lifts in disgust, “Really Huxley? Since when do you drink? In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve been dunk what, three times. And that was in the beginning, you haven’t touched a drop in years. What are you doing?”

  She’s talking too much. I lift my hand and press my pointer finger to her lips, well, I was aiming for her lips, but I get her nose, close enough, “Shhh,” I say.

  Then I start thinking about the word Shhh, is Shhh even a word? It’s more like a sound than I word.

  My pondering is interrupted by Bianca shoving my hand away from her face, “Jesus, I can’t take you out like this. I was going to take you to get a decent suit for tomorrow night, but I’ll just do it myself.”

  I scrunch my nose, “A suit? What for?” I’ve never worn a suit.

  With her hands on her hips, Bee looks down at me, “You are wearing a suit tomorrow night and you’re not going to argue with me about it. Understand?”

  I attempt to give her attitude right back to her, and roll my eyes, bad idea, my stomach curls again, but I swallow it down, “Whatever, you’re not my mother. You can’t make me.”

  I’m proud of my come back until a wave of anguish washes over me, my mother never made me do anything, she didn’t care enough to even try be a mother. This time when my stomach rebels, I don’t have the strength to stop it, I jump to my feet and dash to the nearest sink, the kitchen, and empty the contents of my stomach.

  The smell of rancid alcohol hits my nostrils and another wave of nausea washes through me. I smell like him after a binge. The knowledge that I’m behaving like him, turning to drink instead of dealing with my emotions, causes my stomach to revolt again.

  Resting my head against the sink, I take a few deep breaths to regain my bearings.

  “Feel better, big guy?” Bee asks from somewhere behind me.

  “Not really,” I tell her, “I feel even worse, actually.” And I’m not referring to all the alcohol I’ve consumed this afternoon.

  She sighs loud enough for me to hear her then says, “Well, I’m going to go get you a suit. You should have a shower and sleep it off. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that she leaves me hunched over the kitchen sink.

  When I think I’ve regained my equilibrium enough, I straighten and turn on the tap to wash away the vomit coating the sides of the stainless steel sink. Then take Bee’s advice and head for the shower.

  I crank the hot water in the luxurious black and grey marble shower, then step in under the spray. The pressure is amazing and I rest my forehead against the wall as the water cascades over my tense shoulders.

  The shower is just what I need, it clears the fog that still lingered in my brain from throwing up. I need to sort my shit out, or I’m going to turn into my father. And I’d rather die than be anything like him.

  That’s all I’m sure of by the time I step out of the shower and wrap a heated towel around my waist. I also think I need one of these towel warmers for my bathroom. I think that every time I stay at one of these fancy arse hotels. So that’s two decisions made by the time I walk out of the bathroom.

  I don’t bother putting clothes on when I get to the master bedroom, instead I flop down across the soft gunmetal grey quilt atop the king size bed, and swiftly fall asleep.

  Oh, my god, now I remember the other reason I don’t drink. I can’t handle it. Booze is like poison to my bloodstream. Whether it’s two drinks, or two dozen, I suffer the same godawful monster hangover.

  My skull is throbbing so hard I can feel it pulsing in my eyeballs. I thank my lucky stars that I purged myself of the alcohol last night, or I’d be in even worse shape than I am now.

  Rolling out of bed as slowly as possible, I shuffle to the bathroom joining the room and fill a glass with water, knock it back, then wash my clammy face with cold water. It helps a little, but not as much as a couple of paracetamol will.

  Returning to the bedroom with a second glass of water, I locate my duffle and a search for the little bottle of painkillers I threw in there just in case I made some bad decisions. What can I say, I know myself that well.

  After swallowing the little white pills, I lay back on the bed and try to think of a proactive plan of action. I can’t spend the rest of my time here locked in my room afraid I might run into Eliza.

  I figure breakfast would be a good first move, so I pick up the phone on the bedside table and dial room service. The girl who answers has a high pitched sugary sweet voice, I imagine she thinks she sounds appealing, but I’ve always preferred a huskier tone.

  When I hang up, all I can think about is Eliza. I want so desperately to hear her voice again. I’ve never come across another woman with a voice like hers. Every woman I’ve been with since her has been seriously lacking. But I expected nothing less.

  I knew from the first time I was with Eliza, that no other would measure up.

  She was everything to me then, and she still is now. For me, nothing has changed.

  That’s when I realise I need to see her while I’m in town. I have to lay my eyes on her, even if it’s just for a minute. I need to see how she is, see if she’s changed at all.

  Jesus I’ve missed her, and now, knowing she’s within my reach again, I’m filled with a sense of purpose I haven’t felt in the longest time.

  Feeling inspired, I roll off the bed but this time I land with a bounce in my step. I throw on a t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts then sling my satchel over my shoulder and head out the door.

  I strum my fingers on my thigh as I wait for the elevator to reach the ground floor, I’m out the doors as soon as they slide open and making my way toward the exit.

  I never spent much time in the city when I lived out here, so it’s all new to me and I’m eager to explore. As I’m walking down the street I come across an old building with a French Provincial feel to it, I pull my camera out of my satchel and focus my lens on the edge of the building, where it butts up against a sleek modern atrocity.

  The contrast between the new and the old capture me completely. I wonder if I would have fully appreciated the beauty of the old building had it not been right next to the monstrosity that is modern architecture.

  Just as I’m about to lower my lens, I catch a glimpse of an older woman on her tiny terrace, watering a couple of potted plants. One has out grown its pot and is now entwined with the wrought iron railing.

  I smile to myself and take the shot before she notices me. Her aged hand wrapped around the handle of the watering can that she’s probably been using since she moved into that apartment years ago.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed since I left the hotel, I get so absorbed in my pursuit of these little moments of beauty that I forget to keep track of time. My phone ringing in my pocket is what snaps me out of it, letting my camera hang aroun
d my neck I reach for my phone.

  “Hey, Bee, what’s up?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding me? You better not have done a runner Huxley!” she yells down the line.

  I frown, “What? No, why? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m standing in your suite and you’re not. What the hell? Where are you?”

  Glancing around my surroundings, I try to figure out where I am. “I’m in a park, not exactly sure where, I went for a walk.”

  “Well you better get your arse in a taxi and get back here. It’s already five, Hux, you need to get showered and ready. I’ve hung your suit in your room, please tell me you brought decent footwear,” she almost groans that last part.

  I spot a taxi rank on the street and start for it, “Okay, I’m getting in one now, I’ll be back soon. Stop stressing, I’m a dude, I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, if that. See you soon,” I say, then hang up.

  She’s going to pitch a fit when she realises I only brought my chucks. But if I have to wear a damn suit I’m doing it my way.

  Ten minutes later the taxi pulls up in front of the hotel, “There’s some fancy exhibition here tonight, you going kid?” the old man driving asks me.

  I grin at him in the rear-view mirror, “Yeah, kinda.” I hand him some cash, then slide out.

  Getting out and about with my camera and the fresh air has eased the tension in my body, but opening the door to my suite and being greeted by a pissed off Bee has it rising again.

  “You hung up on me!” she bites out.

  I roll my eyes, “Yeah, and? It’s not the first time, and we both know it probably won’t be the last.”

  She releases a deep sigh, then rolls her neck until it cracks. I hate it when she does that, it’s disgusting. “Will you just go get ready, please?” She glances at her watch, “I should already be down there. Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes, Hux. Twenty,” she eyeballs me as she reiterates the time.

  “I can find my way to the gallery myself, you know. I know you like to treat me like a child, but I’m not. I’ll see you down there soon, go, socialise or whatever it is you need to do before I get there.” I start moving down the hall toward my room then pause, “Oh, and you look amazing, Bee,” I shoot her a wink over my shoulder and catch her smile just before I walk out of view.

  That woman stresses too much. She’s going to go grey before her time.

  When I get out of the shower, I’m pleased to see the suit Bee bought for me is a simple fitted navy suit with a white dress shirt to go with it. She also bought a tie, but that shit ain’t happening. I’d feel like I was being strangled all night. No thanks.

  I roll the sleeves of the jacket and white shirt up my forearms as far as they can comfortably go and opt to leave the jacket open, then slide on my black Converse and tie the laces before tucking the bows inside. I know Bee isn’t going to be impressed with how I’ve dressed it down, but I’m not now, nor will I ever be, a suit wearing man.

  I’m pretty sure she won’t like the scruff on my face either, but I really don’t care. She’s making me do this damn thing so I’m doing it my way.

  Ducking back into the bathroom, I quickly run some hair gel through my hair and decide I look good enough.

  Five minutes later, I’m standing outside the gallery, looking at the sign that displays what all this fuss is about.

  This particular show, Moments of Beauty, is by far my most popular, and most requested. The centre piece changes each time we open, but they’re all from the same series of images.

  It still feels weird when people call me Hadley, but I’ve been going by my middle name since I branching out on my own.

  I take a deep breath and start for the glass doors that lead to what’s was sure to be another evening of fending off cougars.

  As I reach for the handle a guy grabs my arm, “Hey man, you can’t just walk in there, you have to be on the list. This is a private event.”

  I look down at the guy’s hand, still on my arm, then back to his face, and raise a brow. He drops my arm and shrugs, “You can’t go in, dude. It’s VIP or some shit.”

  Chuckling, I say, “I know, trust me, I’m on the list.”

  The guy scoffs, “Yeah, sure you are.”

  Just as I’m about to ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean, Bee comes bursting through the glass doors behind me, “There you are! You said twenty minutes, it’s been half an hour!”

  The guys face pales, “Ah . . .”

  Bee eyes him, then me, “First, why are you detaining the main attraction of this event?” she asks the guy.

  His eyes bulge, “You’re the photographer dude?”

  I nod, “That’d be me.”

  “Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

  Bee turns her blazing eyes back on me, “What have you done to that suit?”

  I smile, “Nothing, it’s a nice suit, thanks.” I wink and hold my crooked arm out for her to take, and she does, even if she is pissed with me.

  “You couldn’t have at least had a shave?” she mumbles as we make our way through the doors and into the gallery.

  Glancing at her from the corner of my eye, I tell her, “I couldn’t show you up. Dressed like that, you’re sure to have all eyes on you this evening.”

  A slight blush creeps over her cheeks, “Thank you, but you’re the focus of tonight, Hux, not me.”

  “Hadley could be a chick’s name, right? How about you pretend to be Hadley tonight? I think that would be a fantastic plan.”

  Bee snorts, “Yeah, I don’t think so. Considering everyone knows that the mysterious Mr. Hadley is just that, a mister it would be a bit weird.”

  “I could have recently undergone surgery to give me those bangin’ curves your rockin.’ I’m an artist you know, and us artistic types do some weird shit.”

  She laughs lightly and shakes her head, “I think undergoing a spur of the moment sex change is a little extreme, even for you.” She pauses when someone on the other side of the room catches her eye, “Give me a minute will you, there are people I need you to meet. Now, play nice while I’m gone, will you?”

  I watch Bee disappear into the crowd of people and I feel so out of place.

  “There you are,” Bianca says from behind me.

  I turn around to face her and she smiles brightly at me, “Hi, so, where is the mysterious Hadley?” I ask. I’m getting anxious about meeting him. I don’t normally get like this when meeting new people, I’m outgoing and, generally, outspoken.

  But I can’t shake this feeling that he’s important.

  I’m not sure what to do with this feeling, or how to stop it. I figure the best course of action is to just get this meeting over with sooner rather than later. But there’s no man by Bianca’s side, I frown and glance around her briefly, “Please don’t tell me he’s a no show.” Oh god, he better show up. There are people here expecting to see him.

  Bianca places a hand on my shoulder, “Breathe,” she says calmly, “he’s here. I left him in a corner somewhere while I came to check on you. Are you all set?”

  I exhale in relief, “Oh, okay, yeah, I’m good to go. Should we do it now?”

  She beams, “Yes. Now is perfect!”

  Downing the rest of my champagne, I give her a nod then stride towards the small unassuming glass podium near the centre piece of the exhibition. I’m dying to see it, I’ve had time to really look at each piece over the last few days, and his pieces are incredible.

  You can’t help but be moved by the beauty in their simplicity.

  When I reach the podium, I take a steadying breath, and turn on the little microphone, “Good evening ladies and gentleman. Welcome to Moments of Beauty by Hadley. I could rattle on about how captivating each individual piece here is, but I know that, like me, you’re all eager to see tonight’s centre piece. So, without further ado, I am honoured to present to you, The One, The Only.”

  As I announce the name of the image, I tug on the corner of the gold curtain that covers
it revealing—me.

  It’s me, I’m not looking at the camera, but I know it’s me. I know that stream, I know that moment. That moment changed my life. Emotion consumes me. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t move.

  My eyes roam every inch of the photo as tears fill my eyes. My chest tightens painfully, and I clutch my heart to keep it inside my body.

  I jump when a hand lands on my shoulder. Spinning around I’m filled with disappointment when I realise it’s my brother, Ben.

  He’s frowning down at me, “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I have,” I whisper as a rogue tear slides down my cheek and my legs weaken.

  Ben’s eyes widen, “Jesus, Liza,” he wraps his arms around me before I fall, “what’s going on right now?” he whispers in my hair, so as not to make a bigger scene than I probably already have.

  I wrap my arms around Ben’s middle and hug him tight, I need to know he’s here, he’s real. Because right now I feel like I’ve been teleported to another time.

  When I feel like I can stand on my own again I pull away from him, “Thank you,” I say and run my hands down my now crinkled red dress that Bianca helped me pick out for tonight.

  My eyes narrow, Bianca. She was awfully determined to get me to unveil that photo, I have to find her, now. Before Ben can ask me what the hell just happened, I go in search of her.

  That voice, I know that voice.

  My heart rate picks up the longer I hear it.

  I look around, trying to find where it’s coming from and see people crowding around the centre piece in the middle of the gallery.

  I swallow down my nerves, and begin to push my way through the crowd. A few people give me dirty looks, but I ignore them. Just as I reach the front row of onlookers, she turns and tugs the corner of the large gold curtain covering the photo.

  This is not how I imagined this moment happening.

  My palms are clammy, and a thin sheen of sweat breaks out across my brow as I wait for her reaction.

  She doesn’t move, not at first. I wish I could see her face, but her back is to me. I see her reach for her heart, and I’m about to go to her when a tall guy in a tux steps up behind her and places his hand on her shoulder.