by Helen Cox
‘Well, I’m Jimmy Boyle. Reporter for the Chronicle.’ My eyes narrowed at this and I switched the blender on full. He looked at me with steady, brown eyes. Perhaps used to a reluctant response from potential interviewees. I poured the milkshake into a glass before setting it down harder on the counter than necessary. Just hard enough to make him jump at the sound.
‘Come on now. The woman who published those photos from last night, Jessie Marble, she’s a notorious hack.’ Boyle took a gulp of his milkshake and made a face that indicated it was better than he’d expected.
‘Right. Unlike yourself. I’m sure you are a beacon of integrity,’ I said, putting a hand on my left hip.
‘Hey, I always dig for the real story.’ On a list of sentences I didn’t want to hear right then, that was position one. Reporters. Questions. Attention.
Oh Esther, did it have to be an actor? Couldn’t you have taken a secret shine to an accountant? Or a veterinarian?
‘What story? This isn’t a story. Unless three people drinking too much vodka constitutes a story at the Chronicle.’ I folded my arms. ‘Actually, I have seen you idiots spin stories out of less than that. Maybe I should just shut up.’
‘It’s just a couple of questions about Mr Faber and how you know him,’ Boyle pressed, taking the top off his pen, ‘and we can pay.’
‘Pay?’ asked Mona. ‘How much?’
‘Mona!’ I shook my head at her and turned back to the reporter. ‘Look Mr Boyle. It doesn’t matter how much you’re offering. There’s nothing to tell. Really.’
‘You’re saying there’s no story here?’ He pointed to the copy of the Chronicle still sitting on the counter. In particular, he pointed at the picture in which I had my arms around Jack’s neck. In the shot, I looked up into his eyes and he down into mine. I didn’t remember that moment at all but, from the way we were standing, it did look like something was going on between us.
‘There is no story.’ I looked hard into Boyle’s eyes, which were too narrow and had a hereditary meanness. ‘Don’t you have something better to write about than this? I’ve got nothing to say that’s worth putting in a newspaper, that’s for sure.’
‘Well, I hear he’s a regular. Maybe I’ll just wait around here. Get the story from him direct.’ Boyle leant back in his chair and put the end of the pen in his mouth like a cigar.
‘He’s hardly a regular. You’re not going to win your Pulitzer sitting around drinking milkshakes.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Boyle nodded his head. His blond curls, slick with gel, stood stock-still as he did so. He had a cold, clinical way of moving that made my whole body stiffen and it was a relief to be interrupted by the doorbell chiming.
‘Hi Julie-Ann,’ I said, excusing myself from Boyle.
‘Hi Esther. How does it feel to be famous?’ She winked at me, threw her purple handbag down on a chair and shook off her green parka jacket.
‘I wouldn’t know.’ I walked over to her but spoke loud enough for Boyle to take note. ‘Mona was just saying nobody believes gossip rags like the Chronicle. You know those lowbrow reporters, they have to invent and embellish just to get a pay cheque.’ I half-shouted that last part in Boyle’s direction. He swung around on his stool.
‘You’re mighty defensive considering you claim there’s nothing to it.’ He lolled in his seat. Relaxed and probably relishing the fact I wasn’t.
‘Who’s he?’ asked Julie-Ann.
‘Reporter, from the Chronicle,’ I said.
‘Ugh.’ Julie-Ann, sensing my discomfort, made a show of looking disgusted. ‘It’s getting so they’ll let anyone in here.’
‘Coffee?’ I said, with a warm smile.
‘Yes please.’ I nipped back behind the counter. Boyle’s reptilian eyes followed.
‘Alright,’ I heard him say, though I kept my back turned, ‘you’re smarter than Jessie gave you credit for.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I called over my shoulder.
‘Did you read her article?’ At this, I spun round.
‘Mr Boyle. I’ve yet to read the works of Tolstoy or Hemmingway. There’s even the odd Orwell volume I haven’t got around to so, funnily enough, Jessie Marble’s fabricated nonsense isn’t exactly at the top of my reading list.’
‘Wasn’t aware Tolstoy was on the reading list for being a waitress.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh she’s not just a waitress. She used to teach literature,’ Mona piped up. ‘In England,’ she added. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She meant well. Trying to make me look better in front of Boyle but she was just stoking his curiosity.
‘Really.’ Boyle scribbled something in his notebook. ‘Teacher turned waitress isn’t what you’d call a natural career path.’
‘People change their careers all the time,’ I said, trying to ignore the clench in my chest.
‘Guess that’s true. Used to practise law myself, before I became a reporter.’
‘So you were promoted from cockroach to termite? I guess that’s a step up.’ I knew I shouldn’t provoke him but, as ever, my tongue was working faster than my brain.
‘Well, teacher to waitress ain’t no promotion at all.’ He looked at me harder than he had done before. ‘Might be considered something of a step down in fact.’
‘Yeah, well I’d wager you got paid more brokering divorce settlements for Generation X than you do writing about what movie stars ate for breakfast this morning, and yet here we are.’
I walked away to deliver Julie-Ann’s coffee.
‘Things still going well with your new man?’ I asked her whilst setting down her cup.
‘Yes. ’Cept I found out he was lying to me about his job.’ She sighed and stirred some cream into her coffee. ‘They always lie to you about somethin’.’
‘His job? That’s a weird thing to lie about.’
‘Told me he was a doctor. Should’ve known that was a cover. That’s what all guys say to impress women.’ She stared into her drink.
‘Is it? I wasn’t aware of this phenomenon,’ I said.
‘That’s because you live in a separate sphere to the world of dating,’ said Mona. As she did so Boyle wrote down something else in his notebook. I glared at her.
‘What does he actually do?’ I asked.
‘He owns a book store in Hell’s Kitchen,’ Julie-Ann replied.
‘What’s so bad about that?’
‘You hear of many people making their millions outta selling books?’ Julie-Ann’s whole face furrowed in revulsion.
‘Well, no…’ I admitted.
‘That’s because there’s no money in it. When a man tells you he owns a book store, the subtext is that he’s flat broke.’
‘So, is he still the love of your life?’ asked Mona, the only person present willing to pose the question we were all pondering.
‘I don’t know.’ Julie-Ann shrugged as though it was out of her control, and maybe it was.
‘Say, miss.’ Boyle wanted my attention again. More comfortable with at least one solid barrier between us, I walked back behind the counter to address him.
‘Yes sir, would you like your cheque?’
He frowned. ‘No. I haven’t finished even half my milkshake yet.’
‘Well, don’t let that stop you.’
‘Wow, you really don’t like me. I respect you’re not willing to sugar-coat it. You’re straight up so I’ll be straight with you. I only got put on this story this morning. Sometimes these stories about new actors in Hollywood don’t lead anywhere but already a coupla things don’t add up ’bout your Mr Faber. He’s hiding something juicy, I’m pretty sure of it.’ He leafed through a few pages of his notebook as though he had all the facts and figures ready for presentation.
‘What is it?’ asked Mona. She couldn’t help herself. She was impossible.
‘Mona!’ I scorned her for the second time in ten minutes.
‘Whatever your relationship with Mr Faber…’ Boyle began.
; ‘There is no relationship with Mr Faber.’
‘Fine. But my investigation doesn’t stop at you. I’ve got something here and I intend to find out more. With or without your help,’ said Boyle. Investigation? It was only the entertainment section for God’s sake. This guy clearly took his job far too seriously and the last thing I needed was someone like that snooping around long-term.
I pushed my face close to his in an attempt to seem intimidating.
‘Whatever you think you know, you probably don’t. Besides, Faber’s life has nothing to do with you or with anyone else. You people make me sick.’ Boyle kept his expression steady but a small flinch told me my words had, at least, made him think twice.
‘You know, you’re doing your best to hide it but you’re a very beautiful woman.’ He looked my face up and down.
‘Ugh. I don’t need you to psychoanalyse my haircut, thank you.’ I rolled my eyes and pulled away but as I turned he caught hold of my wrist and held it.
‘Let go,’ I said. His hand coiled boa-tight around my arm. I gave a sharp tug. His grip didn’t slacken.
‘I’ll let go,’ Boyle leered, ‘when you agree to have dinner with me.’
‘You’re unbelievable. You can’t get what you want by asking direct so you think you can just…just… romance it out of me? Who the hell do you think you are, Michael Douglas?’ I said, still trying to squirm free.
‘That’s not it.’ He laughed and brought his other hand into the mix so mine was enclosed in both of his. ‘I want to take you out.’
‘I told you to let go.’ I tried to keep my voice calm but the words came out uneven.
‘Not until you agree.’ He wrenched me hard in his direction. Our faces came close to touching, even with the counter between us. I looked into his eyes but they weren’t brown anymore. Not to me, at least. They were hardened, grey rocks. Just like Mr Delaney’s.
‘Stop it!’ I hissed. Some other customers turned, chewing over the cud of their sandwiches, watching on, docile. With no help at hand, I refocused my attention on breaking free of Boyle’s vice grip but he was stronger than he looked and it was no effort to keep me where he wanted me. Panic started to takeover. Mona tottered across and tried to prise away his fingers. Boyle sniggered. I looked at him again. Mr Delaney had laughed like that. The first time, when she struggled and kicked.
That was the moment.
When he laughed at her, just like that, she locked me in some black room in the attic of her mind. Separating flesh and thought. An attempt to shelter some quiet part of herself from what he did. That’s when her nodding began. And the cowering at his footsteps on the stairs. Poor, pathetic Mrs Delaney.
I looked at Boyle laughing, and then at the glass of milkshake that was still two thirds full.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ I snapped at Boyle.
‘Immensely,’ he replied.
‘Don’t you think you’ve had your moment, though? Seems like now you’re just milking it.’ Before Boyle could say anything else I picked up his milkshake with my free hand and tipped the remainder of it over his head. He released my arm. I relaxed just enough to take in the view of Boyle’s head smothered in yellow goop. Mona let out high-pitched cackle and clapped her hands. Boyle swiped the milkshake off his eyes and forehead.
‘You…bitch,’ he snarled, snatching the satchel from under his chair and stalking out of the diner. The rest of the customers, always appreciative of a good show, applauded and cheered my initiative. I took a little bow though my hands were still shaking.
‘Oh, that was just killer. You’re just milking it. How do you come up with this stuff?’ Mona cackled.
‘Couldn’t think of a better milk pun. But I’ve watched enough Schwarzenegger movies to know I needed one.’ I massaged my arm, trying to bring back the feeling.
‘Thought I was going to have to sock him to make him let go. Assault don’t go down well when you gotta cop for a husband.’ Mona still had one eye on the door. ‘The milkshake was a much better idea.’
‘Thanks. Not sure aggravating a man like Boyle will to do me any favours though. He seemed pretty intent on getting his story.’ I too looked in the direction of the door.
‘Oh it’s all talk, honey. Reporters’ll say anything.’ Mona put a hand on my shoulder.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, still looking at the door. ‘I just don’t know.’
Chapter Ten
Sinking into the hot bath, I closed my eyes. Blotting out the garish, orange tiles my landlord thought stylish back in 1972. There I lay. Perfectly still. My whole life, the power of a long soak in a steaming tub had never ceased to amaze me. There was something humanising about it. I fancied that being submerged in the warm waters was not unlike the feeling of being in the womb. Silent. Comforting. Secure. That somehow, something in our core connected the environment to a time before fear or pain or knowledge of anything but safety. This theory was the only way I could rationalise the sense of renewal I got from bathing; the feeling of being reborn.
My thoughts turned to the weird vortex of the last few days. Vodka. Media. Shame. Aggressive reporters. It was all complication I didn’t need. Boyle had written a hate piece in the Chronicle recounting the milkshake incident in a manner that made him out the innocent victim. I’d expected Bernie to jump off the deep-end when he discovered I’d poured a drink over a customer’s head but he was instead thrilled I’d managed to get The Starlight Diner a mention one of the city’s most-read publications. He insisted there was no such thing as bad publicity and certainly, the last two days had been busier than usual. I assumed this wasn’t because New Yorkers were a species keen to be showered in leftover milkshake but because, thanks to Jessie Marble’s write-up, people thought they’d get a glimpse of the next Hollywood hunk if they swung by for breakfast. I hadn’t seen Jack myself since the night of the vodka-thon which, given the level of unwanted attention that ‘harmless’ night out had created, was understandable.
Just as I started to let go of all the tension I’d been holding in my stomach, a knock came at my door.
‘Ugh,’ I said to myself, ‘no, go away.’ But the knock sounded again. I hung my head back and sighed before hoisting myself out of the water and pinching a towel off the stack.
‘Just a minute,’ I called, padding out of the bathroom and over to the door. I opened it just ajar: it was Jack. It was at moments like these I wished my door had a peephole like every other door in every other building in Manhattan. Cheapskate landlord strikes again.
‘Hi. Sorry to bother you.’ He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head.
‘That’s OK.’ I opened the door a touch wider and pushed my head through. I looked like a crazy cave woman with my hair piled up on my head. ‘I was just in the bath.’
‘Oh.’ He looked down at the sliver of white towel showing through the crack in the door. ‘Should I come back another time?’ His voice was quiet as though he didn’t want me to even hear the question.
‘Er…’ I looked at him a moment. The sensible thing probably was to send him away and ask him to come back when I was clothed but he’d come over for a reason and I was somewhat curious. Alright, crazy curious. ‘No. It’s alright, I’ll just get changed.’ I opened the door for him, grabbed some clean clothes off the shelf and scuttled into the bathroom before he could take in the full spectacle of me wearing nothing but a bath towel toga.
‘I’ve been meaning to get hold of you for a few days,’ he called through the door. ‘But there’s been a lot going on. One way and another.’
‘Oh I know. The last few days have been mad. Guess you read about what I did to Jimmy Boyle.’ I cringed. What would he think of that particular life choice?
‘Yeah.’ He was laughing. Then the laughing stopped. ‘But there’s been other stuff too.’ He paused for a second. ‘Me and Angela broke up.’ I pushed my head through the unflattering yellow T-shirt I’d managed to pick off the pile. The kind of garment you hang onto for decades even thoug
h it doesn’t suit you. Catching my reflection in the misted mirror, I noticed my eyes had widened but I tried to keep my tone casual.
‘Really? I only saw her yesterday at the diner. She didn’t mention anything.’ And if she had there was no way I’d have let you over the threshold, Faber.
‘It just happened this afternoon,’ he said. I took a deep breath. It was only five thirty now. Had he made me his first, post-break-up port of call? If so, he couldn’t be expecting anything to happen here, could he? I wondered how long I could delay coming out of the bathroom or if I should ever come out at all. Maybe we could conduct the entire conversation through the wall like two characters in a bad, off-Broadway play.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I managed to say. ‘Are you both OK?’ I pulled out the coral scrunchie that’d been holding my hair in the cave woman position and let it fall to my shoulders. Unable to find a brush, I cursed my inability to tidy anything into a logical place and ran my fingers through a couple of the more knotted strands.
‘Break-ups are never fun but luckily we worked out early on we weren’t a fit. And, you know, the age difference was always going to be a problem. Think she liked the idea of dating an actor but that isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’ There was a distinct downhearted note in his tone.
I stared at the bathroom door. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Women have a reputation for taking their time getting ready but there’s only so long you can string out putting on jeans and a T-shirt. Swallowing hard, I opened the door. He was lying on my bed clutching my copy of The Bell Jar – I’d had to go out and find a cheap edition after Walt reminded me of it with his crossword puzzle. Reading about an Esther in New York even more lost than me was more comforting than you might expect.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said, still stood in the bathroom doorway.
‘I’m sorry. For all the stuff in the Chronicle. I’m not used to anyone giving a damn about what I do on a Friday night. Don’t know what’ll happen in the long-term but if this fame thing does come off, I don’t want it to hurt the people I care for…’ He trailed off and looked at me. There was nowhere else to sit in my room except the bed so I remained near the bathroom door. Pushed my hands into my jean pockets. Shuffled my feet around, looking at them. Looking at anything except him.