Who’s That Girl?

by Celia Hayes

  “Do you mean you haven’t touched a woman for over twelve hours?” Brian asks, giving him an incredulous look. “A whole twelve hours?”

  “Brian, this is really starting to piss me off. How long are you planning on keeping it up, exactly?”

  Brian has no intention of easing off though, and he reaches out and grabs Dave’s arm to take his pulse. “Are you ok?” he asks, feigning concern. “I mean, you’re not feeling dizzy, are you?”

  “Will you cut it out?” Dave begs him while he picks up the ball. “I’m fine, I’m fantastic. I’m just going to stay out of the spotlight for a while, that’s all,” he says quietly.

  “If you say so… But I still think that… Wait a minute,” Brian checks himself all of a sudden and lifts his hand up to attract Dave’s attention.

  “What is it now?”

  “Hold on a minute. Isn’t San Francisco Fashion Week about to start?” Brian asks while he tries to remember.

  “What? How would I…” stammers Dave.

  “Yes, I saw some posters for it this morning,” Brian remembers. “The whole town is full of billboards about it.”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t you get it? It’s Fashion Week! And it’s going to start in less than twenty days! And that means that there will be dinners, interviews, presentations and, most importantly, models. Models everywhere! For Christ’s sake, Dave! There are gonna be hordes of Wonderbras wandering around in search of a bit of visibility and then there’ll be you, the deputy editor of the biggest selling newspaper on the west coast!” He suddenly bursts out laughing and slaps his thigh. “I’ll bet you fifty dollars that you won’t make it even half way through!”

  Dave remains immobile. “Well, I’m not going to take your dumb bet.”

  “Ok then, let’s make it a hundred dollars,” says Brian, raising the stakes. “I bet that you are going to fail miserably and give in way before the elections!”

  “Do I really need to remind you that I don’t do the fashion section?”

  “And you actually want me to believe that you won’t even be attending the opening ceremony? Come on, Dave, half of the city is going to be there, and someone like you can never resist an opportunity like that!”

  The truth is that Brian isn’t completely wrong – Dave shouldn’t miss the event, because he’s not just a reporter any more, and his presence will not just be required at the inauguration. Before he assigns the whole job to Margaret, he’ll still have to arrange interviews and photographers, call press offices and so on, and that means he will have to meet representatives from the sponsors of the event and… dammit! It hadn’t occurred to him about Madeleine. She’s the model for Ralph Lauren this year… She must be expecting the newspaper to mention her at least, especially after that game with cream they played… So what now?

  “We should fly post the whole city with leaflets saying ‘Children! If you have green eyes and lots of hair, we know who your father is’,” proposes Brian, almost crying with laughter.

  “Yeah, har har, laugh it up,” says Dave, mimicking him and trying to think of a good reason not to punch him on the nose.

  He can’t stand this, it’s really pissing him off. Is it actually possible that nobody thinks that he’s capable of keeping it in his pants for three months? Who the hell do they think he is? And anyway he really doesn’t want to lie to Tom, after all Tom’s done to save him. No, he’s made up his mind and he’s resolute: no women. Nothing at all. Nada de nada. It’s easy, all he needs to do is organise his time properly. First of all, tomorrow morning he’s going to talk to Madeleine. That is the absolute first thing to do, because there’s no way that their relationship can continue after that article appeared in the New York Times. He’s sure that she will agree once he’s explained the situation. And anyway they were never meant to be together forever, right? They both knew they would split up eventually.

  No, Madeleine isn’t a problem: all that it is going to take is a bit of heartfelt apologising and she’ll be out of his life in five minutes flat. The San Francisco Fashion Week opening ceremony is the real issue. There’s a gala dinner and he will have to dedicate two or three days to the event. He will have to find a way to steer clear of catwalks and changing rooms. Easier said than done, though, how will he manage it? The only thing he can think of is having someone to go with him. Ok, but who?

  He thinks for a moment.

  Which of the newsroom staff would be suitable?

  He goes through all of them, one by one, in his mind, but none of them seem appropriate. Jane? Too nosy. Albert? He has delusions of grandeur and anyway he likes the Chicago Bulls. Carmen? No, it has to be someone the office can do without for a while. So who’s left? Tiffany, the new girl.

  He smiles to himself.

  No!

  No, Tiffany is not suitable at all for this task. He needs someone less showy – someone harmless and asexual, but at the same time he needs someone he can rely on. Someone serious and professional… What an idiot! How could I forget about her?

  “Did you say a hundred?” he asks raising an eyebrow.

  “Yeah – why, are you afraid of losing?”

  “Who? Me?” asks Dave, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. “I don’t think so,” he replies while leaning down to come closer to his friend, a sympathetic expression on his face. “I’m just worried for you.”

  “Are you now? And why?”

  “Because you already owe me two hundred dollars and I don’t know if you’re going to be able to keep up with the instalments on your car if you continue throwing all your money away in these ridiculous attempts to beat me.”

  “Since when do I owe you two hundred bucks?” protests Brian, standing up from the bench “I don’t remember losing any bets to you!”

  “Don’t you? I seem to remember almost winning the match just a moment ago.”

  “What? You couldn’t even score a basket!” replies Brian, indicating the field.

  “To be fair, the score was fifteen to fifteen,” Dave reminds him, throwing the ball at his chest. “After the time out requested by Doc Rivers, the referee’s whistle blows and the players are back on the field. The game is almost over, we’re about to enter the last five minutes after Gasol failed his free throw for the Lakers. The scoreboard is still showing a draw, but will Phil Jackson’s boys be able to beat the Boston Celtics?” he says, challenging Brian and walking backwards without breaking eye contact.

  Brian has been waiting for this moment. He takes Dave by surprise, running to the three point line and dodging his defence. “The Lakers now have a chance to beat off their opponents with Gasol, who’s back on the field and trying to break through. This game isn’t over yet, and these last few minutes are going to be decisive.”

  After a couple more passes they are completely caught up in the game, ignoring the time, the damp and the shouts of locals protesting at the noise they’re making. Tom, The Chronicle, deputy Hoffman… all Dave’s problems evaporate in the light of those old street lamps in that overgrown basketball court behind the small parish church. The clock has gone back to the 2010 NBA final, and who’s to say that the Lakers won’t win the championship this time round?

  Chapter 6

  Gentlemen Prefer Skinny

  “We want another round over here! Hey, did you hear me?” yells Terry, while waving her arms around and indicating her empty glass, in the direction of one of the Collateral waiters who happens to be passing. “Hey, you, are deaf? Oh, well…” After failing to attract his attention, she gives up altogether and turns to look at me instead. I’m holding my head in my hands whilst staring at a plate of french fries covered in ketchup and finishing my Caipiroska cocktail. I’ll admit it might not be the ideal pairing, but right now I’m too drunk to care much. “Fridays in here are the worst, they pay you no attention at all,” she mutters and grabs a handful of nachos from a small bowl.

  I wasn’t even in the mood for going out tonight, just for the record. And I have my reas
ons. Like it being a total waste of time and, let’s face it, it just doesn’t make sense: it’s aesthetically questionable, culturally degrading and, most of all, absolutely pointless. And why wouldn’t it be? How could it not be? For the whole week you drag yourself from house to workplace and back, dressed as if you were going to fight a land war, wearing your glasses and flat shoes and making sure you’ve got lovely dark blue rings under your eyes which go perfectly with your unnaturally pale skin, a special look that can only be achieved by living under neon lights all the time. But on Fridays you suddenly need to try and look like some kind of totally fulfilled modern woman. And it’s the same drama every time; you have about sixty minutes to make up for your last twenty years of procrastination. You put on shoes that you wouldn’t use to torture your worst enemy and a dress that needs an instruction book, and then you slap on enough make-up to embarrass Marilyn Manson. Okay, anyone reading this could object on the grounds that at the moment I’m actually just wearing a pair of jeans and a baggy black pullover, but that’s hardly the point.

  The point is that I didn’t want to go out at all, and I thought I’d made that perfectly clear. It’s hardly likely that my perfect soul mate is actually going to show up after dinner in the most boring bar in SoMa. I know that for sure, and so does Terry. We both know I’ll be going back home on my own tonight. So why on earth would I bother getting dressed up?

  “Have you ever noticed,” I ask while observing the bottom of my glass, “that they put so much ice in these cocktails that all the strawberries end up at the bottom? And so does that weird sweet stuff… what’s it called?”

  “Sugar. It’s just cane sugar.”

  “Yeah, that’s the stuff,” I confirm, while trying to find the last chewable piece of lemon. “Cane sugar, that’s what it’s called!” I continue. “Everything ends up at the bottom of the glass and the ice never melts, so you spend a good half hour drinking dirty water and when you finally reach what’s supposed to be a piece of fruit, it’s already as mushy as a marshmallow.”

  “Yeah…” she sighs, before swapping to her second typical facial expression, the one which signals her laconic acceptance of my limited mental abilities. I don’t let her distract me from my mission, though, and continue searching among the ice cubes with my straw, though without much success.

  “I really don’t get why they have to put so much ice in these things. I’d gladly pay more if they didn’t ruin all my damn cocktails with it!”

  “Okay, I’m going to get the cheque and then take you home. I really don’t want to have to watch you throwing up on the floor.”

  “Nah, I’m fine, don’t worry,” I say, making a casual gesture. “I’m absolutely fine, just a little tired.” I put my glass down on the table and rub my eyes. “I just need to eat something, though I’m not sure what I want… Maybe a piece of cake? Let me see…” I pick up the menu. “How about a coconut mousse with chunks of dark chocolate and coffee cream?”

  “Is that a dessert or the supplies for the NASA Mars mission?”

  “Pfffff…” I huff in annoyance, and replace the menu.

  “Will you tell me what’s really going on?” she says. Or rather shouts, since it’s the only way to make her voice audible over the pop song with an extremely noisy bass line blasting out of the speakers.

  “No, it’s nothing really. I’ve got no intention of boring you by listing all my failures anyway, don’t worry. Tell me about your day – how was it with Carl Urban? Did you manage to squeeze his butt while you were pretending to be looking for the door knob?”

  “Ah, well, actually—” she starts, but I cut her off.

  “I mean, I can’t go on like this, you know?” I moan, and almost burst into tears. “It’s not fair! I deserved that chance, I’ve been preparing for it for a long time!”

  “Please, go on,” she says sarcastically as she watches my outburst, “don’t keep everything bottled up. You know how much I love hearing all about your difficult journey towards alcoholism and sugar addiction.”

  “It’s just…” I start, shaking my head, “I am wasting my whole life in that damn cubicle. All I do is take notes, print documents and sort out the mail…” I list in an apathetic voice, while tapping my hand with an index finger. “Actually, that’s not all I do – I also arrange conferences, take people coffee, read e-mails, sometimes I even get to water the plants!”

  “Please tell me that you’re joking, I really need to hear you say it. You’re… you’re not actually serious, are you?” she asks, hoping she’s misheard.

  Unfortunately, I’m totally serious, and as hard as it is to admit it, I say it out loud: “Yes, I am.”

  “Can I get you anything else, ladies?” asks a guy as he approaches our table. He’s covered in piercings and wearing a tight t-shirt that reveals his sculpted biceps.

  “I’ll have another of these.”

  “And how about you?” he says, turning to me, “can I bring you something?”

  My thoughtful colleague answers for me, even though I don’t remember asking her to. “No, she’s fine, thanks.”

  “No, I’m not,” I protest, trying to give the guy my Visa card.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” she insists, snatching the card from my hand.

  “No, I’m not,” I try again.

  “Yes, you are, I’m telling you,” she insists stubbornly, stopping me from handing my card to the charming man tapping his fingertips on the table while he waits for us to make up our minds.

  “But I want another drink!”

  “Sam!” She’s almost about to start yelling at me, but then she decides to change strategy: “Hey, look over there,” she says, trying to distract me by pointing to the TV on the wall behind the bar. “Do you recognise anyone there?”

  I know I shouldn’t turn my head, but something in the presenter’s voice manages to capture my attention. Even though I don’t want to make it so easy for her, I eventually turn my head and find myself staring at a bunch of smartly dressed people coming and going. I think I see a face I know very well amongst them, but I need to blink a few times to convince myself that I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing.

  …some of the city’s most renowned personalities took part in the event, which the administration claimed was a very important opportunity to raise public awareness about the new policies aimed at providing support to the disadvantaged…

  Terry takes advantage of my temporary distraction to whisper in the waiter’s ear, “Ten dollars if you beat it.”

  “Listen lady, this is a free country! If your friend wants a drink you should let her have one,” he protests with a smirk.

  “Okay, then. How much do you want?” she says.

  “Give me twenty and I’ll keep myself busy on the other side of the room until you two have gone,” he replies immediately.

  “Twenty dollars? You must be joking.”

  “Wait! Is… is that my Dave?” I mumble, slurring because of the alcohol. I try to raise my arm, but I can’t co-ordinate my movements very well any more and I almost pour the slimy yellowish remains of my drink all over myself. After realising the state I’m in, Terry decides to accept the waiter’s offer.

  “Right, take your damn twenty dollars and get lost,” she hisses at him in a low voice, hoping that I won’t hear. But she could have shouted and I still wouldn’t have noticed, because I’m totally enraptured by the TV. Before it was showing a football game, but during the break they’ve turned to the eleven o’clock news. They’re actually only summarising the events of the day, so there’s nothing that hasn’t already been said, written or published on the web. At the bottom of the screen there’s a rolling line of text giving the latest news from Wall Street while above it there are expert shots of the event. I give in to my lowest instincts and start to fantasise about that perfectly tailored tux and those wonderful hands.

  And representing the local press, we have Dave Callaghan from The Chronicle and Henry Marsh from San Francisco Today, both
supporters of the party. Mr Callaghan has recently made headlines himself because of his involvement in the enquiry into deputy Hoffman…

  “God, Terry, look at him! Just look at him. Isn’t he amazing?” I say, ranting like some demented groupie until the camera pulls out, seemingly with the sole purpose of completely ruining my evening, as it reveals a blonde woman who seems to be very friendly with Dave.

  … and tonight he is accompanied by Madeleine Hunt, the model who appears in the new Ralph Lauren advert.

  “Okay,” Terry whispers to the waiter as she snatches her money back from him, “sudden change of plan – be a good boy and get her another one.”

  “No,” I moan, “That’s not my Dave.”

  “And get a move on!” she hisses, then turns towards me with a reassuring smile. “So, what did you want me to see? Did I miss something?”

  “He looks more like he’s her Dave,” I say, giving in to the reality of the situation.

  “What?” she asks, before taking a look herself. “Do you mean her? Nah, I’m sure he doesn’t even know her name. You know how these things go, it was probably something the press agency came up with,” she continues, trying to cheer me up. I slowly sink down into my chair, unable to take my eyes off the screen. “Anyway, that’s not even today,” she adds when she realises she’s not really helping. “Unless I’m mistaken, I think that’s an event they held last week.”

  Three years. I’ve been dreaming about our life together for three whole years, imagining what it would be like to walk hand in hand, buy the Sunday newspaper together, have a picnic in the park together while we lie on a worn out old plaid blanket, all that stuff. I’ve been dreaming about all this as though it might really come true one day. As though a man like that could ever be interested in a woman like me. Deep down, I already know that none of it will ever happen, but knowing something deep down is different from seeing it on a fifty inch hi-def liquid crystal display screen. I didn’t imagine that Dave was a monk in his free time but I was secretly hoping that – like me – he was waiting to meet his soul mate, and that person might be me. Or that he might bang his head on the corner of the photocopier and mistake me for his soul mate when he came round.