“Me too,” Stephan said. “But really, it’s not a whole lot to ask. If you wanted me to kick in on the down-payment, that might be something to make a big deal about.”
“I’m serious, though. It sounds cheesy, but there aren’t too many people you can really trust for that.”
“If you say so, Pete, but honestly I’m just in it for the free coconut cream pie. So it’d better be as good as you say.” He shook his fist in mock warning.
“Reasonable,” Pete said, nodding, as their waiter came to take their orders.
As it turned out, the pie was indeed a handsome reward for Stephan’s services. The cream was sweet and rich, the crust light and flaky. Even the coconut shavings on top tasted as if they had just been harvested from a grove of palm trees out back.
“This pie is just incredible,” Stephan mumbled, wide-eyed, as he prepared to cram his mouth with another forkful.
“You should know me well enough by now to understand that I would never express my gratitude to a close friend in the form of substandard pie,” Pete said.
“Well, sure, but this is better than good. It’s like what a piece of coconut cream pie in a Norman Rockwell painting would taste like.”
Mid-way through his second helping, which he had been savouring thoughtfully, Pete suddenly paused, swallowed in a deliberate manner, and looked Stephan in the eye, a stern expression on his face.
“Out with it, then,” he said.
“Sorry?” Stephan asked, his fork dangling another helping in front of his face.
“Come on, man. Wasn’t I just saying how we’ve known each other forever? You think I can’t tell when something’s changed? Took me a while to catch on, I admit – guess I’ve been distracted with this house-purchase stuff – but I’m not totally oblivious.”
“Well, Pete, I...” He paused, and then broke into a rueful laugh.
“Well?” Pete said, giving him an impatient stare.
“Okay, fine. You’re right. Something has changed. I’m seeing someone.”
“Aha – I knew it!” Pete said, grinning ear to ear. Is it that person you mentioned – or actually didn’t mention, the other night at the pub?”
Stephan nodded. “How did you know something was up?”
“You have a glow.”
“A glow.”
“Yep,” Pete said. “So tell me the story, then. And don’t go leaving out any of the juicy bits.”
Recognizing that resistance at this point would get him nowhere, Stephan gave in, put down his fork and proceeded to fill his friend in on all of the recent developments on the Jenny Wynne front, from his first meeting with her at the magazine awards to their night together a few weeks later and through the last couple of weeks.
He was not a person who gushed, but he found it difficult to hide how pleased he was as he told the story – the memories were simply too satisfying and fresh for that to be possible. They had dined at a French bistro in Kensington market, an Italian café on College Street and a curry joint in Little India. They had gone drinking together in student dives, rooftop martini bars and a hotel lounge at which she was on a first-name basis with the bartender (a certain Pedro). There had been an opening at a gallery on Scollard Street, a Truffaut retrospective at the cinematheque, and the launch of a new line of scarves at the Hermès store on Bloor (where he felt more than a little out of place, but stood patiently at Jenny’s side listening to quasi-academic debates about accessories).
Regardless of their evening plans, things inevitably concluded in the same way, with activities of a more intimate nature. There was something almost frightening about Jenny Wynne when they were together. Wordless, sleek, she was unabashed yet in complete control. Sometimes her hands pushed into him with surprising strength, and he had a bruise on his upper thigh from where her hip bone had caught him one night as she rolled him on top of her.
Stephan glazed over such details in his account to Pete, and also refrained from mentioning his recent daydreams about their future together. In one version, they would elope to the Caribbean for an impromptu marriage in some idyllic yet charmingly rustic eco-lodge. Next, they would move to New York, renting an apartment in Brooklyn, from which they would launch their careers on the international stage. Stephan would become a world-renowned photojournalist, shooting for all the big players on the New York Scene – Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, Vogue – while selling his uncompromising art photos for tidy sums on the side. Jenny would achieve fame as a powerhouse columnist at the Times, branching out from her current lifestyle fare into hard-hitting political commentary, eviscerating the Bush administration with devastating verbal salvos.
“Well, she must be quite a catch,” Pete said. “I haven’t seen you this misty-eyed in years.”
“You know what? It’s true. She’s that awesome.”
“And here I was, thinking you were married to the sea. But I guess you were just biding your time, you old dog.”
“Maybe so. Speaking of time, I’d better run.”
“I was just going to ask you if you wanted another slice for your troubles.”
“Another time, no question. But right now I need to get going.”
* * * * *
And so, after sneaking in a brief obligatory session in the darkroom, Stephan made his way out to the city’s west end for the launch of the latest issue of Grampus magazine, at the newly renovated Balfour Hotel, a rambling brick castle of similar age to, and just up the street from, Stephan’s studio. It had once been known as a haven for drifters and small-time crooks, but the recent arrival in this part of the city of a new wave of gallery owners, vintage clothing purveyors, young chefs and the people they collectively catered to had remade the Balfour, too.
Fitfully at first, the neighbourhood’s new inhabitants had begun patronizing the hotel’s bar and infiltrating its hallowed karaoke nights. Then, about a year ago, the place had been purchased by one of the newcomers, the daughter of a pioneering developer of shopping malls who’d made a fortune in the sixties and seventies. The new owner had commenced wholesale renovations, restoring hardwood floors, exposing brick, and decorating rooms with outsider art. But the transformation remained a work in progress, and large sections of the building were yet to be remade.
The event that night was being held in a smallish café space across from the Balfour’s main bar. Stephan arrived, alone, a half-hour after the advertised start time. At the front doors, copies of the new issue were fanned out on a low table, a black and white shot of the Prime Minister’s face on the cover, his shrewd eyes sizing up the blank ceiling. The general consensus was that the publication was dull and condescending, but Stephan actually kind of liked it. As it happened, it sometimes ran photo essays that were up his alley, paying rates that were generous by local standards. He’d had the idea of pitching a couple, and so, thanks to the connections and good graces of his new girlfriend, here he was.
He soon spotted her amid the small crowd, standing over by the bar with an admiring cluster of junior editorial types. He approached.
“Well, hello there, madam.”
“Stephan!” she cried, all smiles. “I was hoping you’d make it.”
He ordered a drink and they stood together near the front of the room while he caught her up on his recent activities. It had only been a week or so since he’d seen her, but always there was much to discuss – new assignments, recent Sopranos episodes, the latest industry rumours.
He broke off as he caught her attention wandering.
“Hang on, Steph – here’s Jake Gilfred, the editor of Grampus. We should say hello to him while he’s still relatively coherent.”
Before Stephan had time to react, she reached around him and placed her hand on the arm of a man who was moving by. The man was a dishevelled sixty-something with a shock of greying hair and an ill-fitting cotton jacket. For a moment he seemed angry and confused, but then he saw who he was dealing with and instantly brightened.
“Young Jennifer Wynne,” he m
urmured, smiling as he eyed her. “How goes it, kiddo? How’s your pop?”
“Dad’s fine, Jake. I’ll be sure to give him your regards.”
“You see our new issue yet?”
“I was just looking it over now,” she said. “You’ve done it again, I’d venture. Another grand slam.”
“Bullshit,” Jake said, grinning and stroking his chin. “A stand-up double at best.”
“Jake, someone here I’d like to introduce you to,” Jenny said, pushing Stephan forward.
“Nice to meet you,” Stephan said, crisply, extending his hand.
Jake looked him over with an expression of thinly veiled contempt that seemed almost to border on rage. Stephan retracted his hand.
“You really need to meet this one,” Jenny persisted. “Jake – this is Stephan Stern. Stephan’s one of the top young photographers coming up right now. He’s a natural for one of your Camera Eye pieces.”
Jake’s face was expressionless behind its stippling of five o’clock shadow. “So I suppose you shoot mainly digital, then, young man?” he sniffed.
“Actually, no,” Stephan said. “I shoot film exclusively, and black and white whenever I can, some medium format work. I don’t want to pretend that digital doesn’t exist, but I guess you could say that my interests lie elsewhere.”
He waited.
“Hmmm....”
“I just find that film has a, well, a texture to it that digital will never be able to replicate.”
Jake blinked a couple of times. “Well, that was pretentious,” he said. “But I trust Jenny’s judgement. You see that young fellow over there, with the cardigan and the absurd spectacles? Tell him I sent you over.”
“Isn’t he great?” Jenny said, after Jake had taken his leave, lumbering off in the direction of the bar.
“Yeah, great.”
The art director turned out to be a tad more approachable than Jake Gilfred had been. After Stephan had introduced himself, the man gently, and with obvious expertise, queried him about his background and interests. Jenny Wynne had slipped away by that point, but Stephan could catch up with her again later. In the meantime, things were going according to plan. Within a few minutes, he had already been introduced to several other junior staff members – an associate art director, two photo editors and a proofreader who helpfully explained the difference between en dashes and em dashes.
After a half-hour had passed in what felt like the span of a few minutes, his mind returned to Jenny. He wanted to thank her for the introduction to Jake Gilfred, but their paths didn’t seem to be recrossing. He searched around the room in a more systematic fashion, and managed to locate her off in a quiet corner by the side exit, chatting with a petite Asian woman in skinny jeans and sneakers. As he approached, the woman whispered something in Jenny’s ear, and the two of them broke up in a fit of girlish laughter.
“Jenny – how are ya?” Stephan said, nonchalant.
“Stephan!”
“Hope I’m not butting in.”
“Not at all! We were just engaging in a little childish gossip at the expense of your new art director friend.”
“How evil of you,” he said, and was about to ask for the details when the Asian woman spoke up.
“Hi, I’m Angela Song.”
“Oh, hi there,” he said, realizing why she was familiar – she was a local film critic who sometimes appeared on a cable movie-review show with a couple of other local critics. “Stephan Stern – good to meet you.”
They made small talk for a few minutes, and Angela recommended a couple new movies she’d previewed in advance of the film festival before excusing herself to speak to a friend she’d just spotted on the other side of the room.
Stephan was glad to have Jenny to himself again. “She seems nice,” he offered. “Not as pretty as on TV, though.” He paused. “Sorry, that was a moronic comment.”
“How did things go with Jake’s art director?”
“Not too badly, I guess – he didn’t seem to want to beat me up, at least. Actually, he said that he might have an assignment for me. Of course, you never know if these things will pan out, but still, thanks. I owe you one.”
“Think of it as a tiny gift from a friend.”
Mid-way through the event, Stephan found himself chatting with Nathan MacGregor, his old acquaintance from This City, who it turned out also wrote for Grampus from time to time.
“So what do you think of this place?” Nathan asked him. “Is it going to be the new ‘it’ spot?”
“Sure, maybe?” Stephan said with a shrug. He wasn’t exactly an expert on such matters. “As long as they keep hosting events featuring free drink tickets, they should pack people in.”
“Yes, the free drink tickets are rather a draw, aren’t they? I’m something of a shark when it comes to free drink tickets, I’m afraid.”
“I’m more of a remora of free drink tickets myself,” Stephan admitted.
Speaking of free drink tickets, by that point Stephan had long-since used up his supply, and was not coincidentally feeling well lubricated.
He made a pit stop in the men’s bathroom, upstairs, which hadn’t yet been renovated by the new owners, except for new sinks and an automatic hand dryer, one of the newer ones with a built-in motion sensor. The walls were a vomity yellow-green, at least where they weren’t covered in graffiti, and there were ancient soccer stories from British tabloids pinned above the urinals. The story above Stephan’s urinal was an account of a Manchester United victory, but he was more taken with the sidebar obituary of a deranged Baronet known for his love of fox hunting and sadomasochistic orgies. He’d died of an overdose of opium... a predictable downfall.
He washed his hands at one of the incongruously clean new sinks and mussed up his hair.
“You look fabulous, dude,” said the guy at the next sink.
“So they tell me,” Stephan said as he dried his hands under a sharp blast of warm air from the gleaming dryer.
Back downstairs, he found that the magazine launch was starting to break up. A bunch of people wandered off to check out the karaoke session that was starting up in the main bar, while outsiders began to come into the café to take advantage of the free tables. Stephan mingled with the stragglers from the launch, keeping an eye out for Jenny, but she had wandered off again; Angela Song, too, seemed to have moved on. He had a quick look through the main bar, but there was no sign of them there either. Maybe they had gone out to get some air, or ducked into one of the events currently unfolding in the secondary rooms upstairs – no doubt Jenny knew people at some of these gatherings. Perhaps she was saying a quick hello.
Then he spotted her. She was standing in the doorway to the main bar, watching a pair of bad karaoke singers’ enthusiastic rendition of a Fleetwood Mac number from the dim years of his early childhood. He hurried over and placed a friendly hand on her shoulder, but knew immediately that it wasn’t her. Same height, same hair colour, same swatch of a dress. But when she turned to face him her eyes were grey, not blue, and her nose was too long.
“Sorry!” he roared, pulling away his hand as if he’d just placed it on a hot grill. “I thought you were someone else.”
The woman regarded him with a bored, blank expression. Then she shrugged and turned back to the singers as they launched into another off-key chorus.
He searched through the entire hotel, from top to bottom, which took some time. The place was huge, much bigger than he’d realized. In addition to the café where the magazine event had been held, and the main bar across the hall, there were several galleries, micro-lounges and lesser event spaces, many still in the midst of renovation. He had several more sightings, but each time when he got close enough he saw that he’d been mistaken, that it was not the real Jenny but some look-alike. Finally, back in the main bar, he came upon Nathan again, watching the karaoke, a fresh gin and tonic in hand and a glazed expression on his face.
“Bravo! Bravo!” Nathan hollered as Stephan approached.
“I was just wondering if you’d seen Jenny Wynne by any chance,” Stephan asked, willing himself to remain calm.
Nathan pondered. “She was here not even two minutes ago,” he said after a long pause. “The two of them did a smashing duet of ‘Love to Love You Baby.’”
“I just wanted to have a quick word with her.”
“Oh, well, you may be out of luck. She and her girlfriend were just leaving for some after hours club.”
“Sorry?”
Nathan looked him over unsteadily. “Oh, I thought... never mind. If you hurry you might still be able to catch them.”
He burst through the hotel’s front doors and down the short flight of stairs. On the sidewalk all around him, people stood in quiet circles smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices. Checking each group of people in turn – he must have looked like a lunatic – he failed once again to find her. Defeated, he was just about to go back inside when, up the street, a taxi made a looping u-turn in his direction and then accelerated past him.
There she was, illuminated suddenly in a pool of light from a streetlamp, locked in a deep kiss with Angela Song as they sped off into the night.
Chapter 6
Streetside, the Telegraph newspaper box regarded him with an obscene leer.
“So our star lifestyle columnist left you in the lurch, now, did she?” it burbled, with a nod and a wink to drive home the burn. For some reason the newspaper box spoke with a poncy upper-class British accent. “Rotten luck there, old fellow.”
Stephan landed a vicious karate kick to its simpering face, as up the block a couple out walking their Bichon Frise crossed over to the other side of the street. The box tottered, then fell backwards, lolling against the chain that secured it to an adjacent signpost.
It was late now, bizarrely late for dog walking, come to think of it, although he wasn’t sure of the exact time because he had managed to misplace his cell phone. He had stayed on at the Balfour after Jenny Wynne’s departure, eventually tagging along with Nathan and a couple of others to a dive bar up the street for a last drink at the end of the night. And when his companions of the evening had eventually dispersed, he sat alone at the bar, bitter and sullen, downing rye and cokes. The place was one of her occasional hangouts, and he found himself hoping, pathetically, that she might appear. But of course last call came and went without any sign of her.
The Silver Age Page 7