by Celia Hayes
“You’re pathetic, I hope you know it.”
“We’ll talk about that in a month.”
“A month and a half!” says Brian.
“A month and a day,” replies Dave.
“Yeah, well, that day will be fatal!”
“It’s over, Brian, surrender. I no longer run any risk. I’m safe in my room, in the company of cable tv, laptop and…”
“I knew you’d end up on the pay channels. What a squalid way for you to end up.”
“Sam…” murmurs Dave.
“Who is it?” asks Brian. “No, don’t tell me. The cover of April’s Cosmo? That Asian chick? You know I’ve got a thing for Asian girls.”
“Brian, I… I have to go.”
Chapter 22
‘No’: Its Synonyms and Antonyms
The scoundrel! My plan was to relax with a hot bath, but I’m afraid that it didn’t produce the desired effect. I get out of the tub even more tense than when I got in and wrap myself in a bath robe. It’s a little short for walking around the living room, to be honest, as I notice when I walk past the mirror, but Dave isn’t back yet. The last time I saw him, he was surrounded by a bunch of up and coming designers. That seemed like a suitable punishment for him, so I faked a migraine and abandoned him to a discussion of Middle Eastern influence in swimwear fashion this year, hoping it would go on all night. I don’t know how long it will take him to extricate himself, but I was sure I had enough time to sneak away without being noticed.
“Oops…” I say as I bump against something terribly hard as soon as I poke my nose out of the door. I look up, imagining that it must be a column and instead I find myself staring at the mother-of-pearl button on a white shirt.
“Dave…”
“Sam…”
He’s… so tall. When did he get so tall? “I didn’t hear you come in.” I pull the bath robe around myself and look away from him.
“Brian, I… I have to go,” he murmurs into the phone, going back a few steps to close the door.
How embarrassing.
“I… I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t think… I left my pyjamas in the bedroom.”
“Yes, so I see,” he says with a frown, leaning back against the wall.
“Is… is the party already over?”
“No.”
“Oh… weren’t you enjoying it?” I ask, in a feeble attempt to make conversation, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be talking to your boss dressed in sponge slippers.
“Actually I was a bit tired,” he answers, struggling to seem uninterested but clearly having some difficulty keeping his eyes off my somewhat shapely body. “Is your head better?” he asks, desperately trying not to look.
“My… my head? Ah, yeah, sure. My head.” I nod. “I… I took a pill.”
“Good,” he mutters.
“Thanks,” I reply. Silence falls. I scratch my nose and he fiddles with the electronic key.
“Okay, so I’ll be going—”
“Okay, so if you’re done in the bathroom—” we say at the same moment, our voices overlapping.
“It’s all yours, I’m done.”
Dave stands there staring at me for a bit.
“Okay, I’ll be going then,” I say, gesturing to my room, but I don’t go anywhere. I know, damn it. I know I should go away, but the idea of having to do it with him staring at me doesn’t help. “Right…” I say, overcoming my embarrassment and I’m gone. With each step my heartbeat gets more normal.
Hands pressed to my breasts I try and hold the bathrobe in place while I mentally focus on Kim Basinger in Nine and a Half Weeks, in the hope that it will make my walk more sensual, but the comparison isn’t exactly helpful and when I close the door of my room I thank my lucky stars for having kept me out of the way of any possible obstacles.
“Okay…”
I breathe a sigh of relief, let go of the handle and quickly start to get my colour back. All it took was a door between us.
No, I shouldn’t have stayed, and the more time we spend together, the more I realise that the sooner I forget Dave, the better it will be for both of us, for my job and for my sanity. I think about it while I put a lock of hair behind my ear as I walk to the bed.
There are some bags lying there. A cocktail dress, some underwear and a pair of pyjamas from the hotel boutique, just as Dave asked. A dress. A change of underwear. One more day and I’ll be just Sam again. Sam ‘what got into your head?’ Preston.
I rummage through the bags, hoping to find an extra-large t-shirt, the only thing that will do for what I have in mind. I’m already thinking about my MP3, always tuned to ‘radio broken hearts, sob desperately along to the tunes of the most depressing hits of the moment’. As I open the last bag, however, something incredibly strong and solid suddenly grabs me by the waist, lifts me off my feet and drags me over to the wall, cursing between clenched teeth.
“So you forgot your pyjamas, huh?”
“Dave…”
“Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you now?”
No, actually, I don’t, but from the way things are going, I’m starting to get a slight suspicion.
He doesn’t give me much freedom of action. One of his hands grabs my head and the other goes under my bathrobe. I try to protest, but I can’t be very convincing because he shuts down any form of discussion by blocking my mouth with one of the most amazing kisses I have ever received, imaginary or otherwise. I’m breathless when he finally decides to break it off. Satisfied with himself, he gives me an evil grin while he enjoys the scene and I stand there with a desperate expression on my face that says ‘whatever that was, please don’t stop’. I imagine his ego must be doing somersaults and I feel deeply ashamed of myself.
“Erm, I’d suggest a less aggressive approach…?” I suggest.
“Admit it, Sam,” he whispers, holding me tight, “you’ve decided to drive me crazy,” and his fingers slip through my hair and caress my neck. I feel his mouth resting on my skin and his tongue tracing the back of my ear.
“Dave… no,” I say, trying to stop him, putting my hands on his chest.
“No!?!” He glares at me and backs off for a moment, shaking his head as though it were impossible that I was dismissing him. “‘No, Dave…’” he says, mimicking my voice. “Sure. First you appear almost naked in the living room, then ‘No, Dave’.”
“Dave, look, before…” I say, trying to justify myself.
“Yeah, right, and I’m supposed to believe you,” he cuts me off with a bold smile before bending over me again to kiss me as if I hadn’t said anything. And my protests and attempts to push him away are pointless – he holds me tight, stopping me from escaping, and kisses my neck, then my face, then back to my neck and my still wet shoulder, and his hand makes its way between my legs with the same impatience as before.
“I swear …” I say, trying to explain, but I lose my thread as soon as I feel his fingers inside me. It’s immediate. My vision blurs, and the only thing I can do is put my face on his chest and close my eyes.
“What the hell is that?” At precisely the moment I surrender, he suddenly backs away, almost making me fall over.
“What… Where? I don’t understand.”
“Your smell.” He sniffs me, stops to think, and then starts sniffing me again with a frown. “What the hell is that?”
“Ah… it’s the bath foam. It’s just bath foam.”
“Jesus…” He puts his nose back behind my ear. “Is this stuff legal?” I hear him muttering. “What the hell do they put in it?”
I laugh. “It’s chocolate and vanilla. Don’t you like it?”
Dave responds with a glare and pushes me against the wall with his body. “That’s a low blow.”
“Really?” I joke.
“You’re dangerous,” he almost whispers, before putting his lips back on me, determined to make me pay. His hand too is back where it was, but this time he isn’t so gentle, he doesn’t go slow
ly, giving me time to get used to him, to welcome him inside me. No. He pushes his way in once, twice, determined to have his way.
“Dave, please.”
“No,” he whispers into my lips. I don’t really understand what is happening until I see him punch the wall in frustration. “No…” His eyes still closed, he catches his breath. “No…” He opens them, looks at me and… runs away, abandoning me there against that wall without a word. “No!” he groans through clenched teeth, “no, god dammit!” He starts pacing the room with his hands in his hair. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“I… what…” I murmur, my knees trembling.
“Fuck!” he says, completely ignoring me. He walks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
“Dave?”
“No!” he says, suddenly stopping and putting up a hand to silence me. “Is that clear? No!” I’ve never seen him in this state before. He seems like another person.
“What have I done?” I ask, totally disorientated.
“Ah, what have you done?” he asks sarcastically. “She asks what she’s done.”
“I honestly don’t understand you,” I say, starting to lose my patience. “You came in here while I was calmly…”
“Calmly?” he repeats incredulously. “You weren’t doing anything ‘calmly’. You… you want everyone to think you’re calm, but you’re… you’re…” he stammers, clicking his fingers while he searches for the right word.
“Dave, I think you should think carefully about what you…” I warn him, seeing the conversation coming to a tragic end.
“… you’re diabolical!” he says.
I’m shocked. “Me?!” I say, blinking in surprise and pointing to myself.
“One month. Just one single month. Only one month left. What’s one fucking month? You were supposed to help me. You were chosen to help me. Out of all of them, I’d chosen you because you were supposed to be…”
“I hate all these adjectives. Can we skip the adjectives? Because you’ve demonstrated on more than one occasion that you’re really not that great at handling adjectives.”
“… harmless.”
“Harmless… I’m harmless,” I say, with a touch of disappointment.
“Exactly!”
“I think I preferred diabolical.”
“Right now I should be thinking about my career,” he starts whingeing again. “Do you want to tell me how the hell I’m supposed to do that if every time I look at you, you look more like some goddamn mouthwatering cupcake?”
“A cupcake?”
“Yeah, with… with all those… those things you’ve got. Those soft things. You’re driving me out of my mind,” and he covers his face with his hands. “I must be going crazy,” he says to himself. “Brian is right. I’m never going to make it.”
And from that point on, I have no idea what he’s talking about. And above all, who the hell is this Brian character and why has he got anything to say about Dave and me?
I sigh.
I don’t know, I really don’t, and I’m not actually sure that I want to find out right now. I’m too deep in shock. Shocked, frustrated, embarrassed and for the second time in two days full of disappointment. Deeply disappointed and bitter. I think I’ll try to postpone everything until tomorrow, preferably after a coffee. A huge cup of steaming hot coffee. Because the only thing that comes to mind right now is throwing myself off the balcony dressed only in my bathrobe.
Enough. Dave has to go and I’ll be setting my alarm clock for noon. I think I just earned it.
“Stop,” he protests as soon as I try and move away from the wall. This time he grabs both my wrists, to prevent even the smallest movement.
“I…”
“No,” he says, categorically.
“But…” I try and protest.
“Damn it, Sam, you smell like a… like a cupcake. One of those little creamy ones…” he says in a strangled voice.
“Maybe you’re just hungry?” I suggest. “You want me to order you something? A sandwich?”
“Sam, I don’t want a sandwich.”
“So what do you want?” I say, finally coming out with the question I’ve been wanting to ask him for days. Finally I’ve managed to come out with it.
“I…”
Without letting go of me, without stopping staring at me, for the first time he’s speechless. He looks for an answer in my eyes, but when he finally finds it he doesn’t seem to like it. His hands release mine, freeing me, and he starts pacing the room again as before – the same agitation, the same inability to communicate.
“No. No. No. No. No. Damn it, no! Look at me, Sam – look at me.” He takes my chin in his hand and forces me to look at him.
“I am looking at you.”
“I’m not joking. I’m serious. I need peace of mind. This is a delicate moment in my life and you’re not helping. I need you. Right now, I need your help now more than I ever have in the past. Can you do it? Can you help me?”
He obviously doesn’t intend to explain what he is talking about, but from his tone of voice and the expression on his face I can tell that whatever it is, it’s obviously very important for him.
“Of course, I… yes,” I say, feeling guilty for no reason.
“Okay, then listen carefully. From today please dress appropriately.”
“Okay.”
“No provocative outfits.”
“Okay.”
“No bath gel that smells of cream, vanilla or chocolate or any other strange flavour that comes into your head.”
“Okay…” I sigh in resignation, lowering my shoulders. He doesn’t look convinced. “Dave, I swear, I understand,” I say, and he finally lets me go, apparently partially reassured.
“From today, go back to being the old Sam.”
“The harmless one?”
“Yeah, the harmless one.”
“So you mean right now I’m not,” I say. “Harmless, I mean. You’re right, though… I don’t feel harmless,” I repeat, smiling.
I know, I just promised to help him, but can I enjoy the feeling of power for just one second? In a moment it will all be over. Long gone. Can’t I have a little consolation prize for giving up my secret dream?
“No, Sam, you are harmless and you’ll always be harmless – it’s me who isn’t harmless at the moment. I get distracted by anything and everything. You saw me just now, didn’t you? And that isn’t what you want, right?”
No, obviously not. I don’t even deserve this, and when it comes to making me feel like crap, I think with disappointment, he has an incredible talent for it.
“Wait a moment, what do you mean I’ll always be harmless?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“Well, explain it better, because I don’t understand.”
“You know. You’re Sam.”
“And what does that mean? Since when has a Sam been a particular type of person?” I say angrily.
“I just mean that you’re straightforward, you don’t have the pretensions that some people have,” he says, trying to worm his way out of it.
“So you think belonging to the female sex is a pretension?”
“I don’t…” He doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t used to arguing. Not with me, at least, because until today all I ever did was give him support while I cultivated my secret hope that he would notice me. “Why do you want to fight? I’m just trying to say that you’re not a… provocative woman. You’re the girl next door. A—” he’s about to say something, but my expression seems to put him on the alert and he changes strategy at the last minute. “A friendly, helpful person,” he says, trying to sound conciliatory. “You have a thousand other good points. You’re so sweet, and so patient.”
“Other…” Of all his ridiculous lies, I repeat the only one worthy of note.
“Listen Sam, all this is already hard enough,” he moans, suddenly playing the victim with incredible ease, “don’t you start too…”
“What’s har
d? Define ‘hard’, because I’m starting to think you have a very messed up view of reality.”
“Do you think I’m happy not to get my hands on you? Have you no idea how much effort I have to make whenever I see you, not to…”
“Oh, poor thing,” I say. “It must be terrible.”
“You’re damn right!” he says, not noticing my sarcasm.
“What a tragic way to go, to actually find someone as awful as me attractive.”
“That’s not what I said.” The penny’s dropped.
“No, but you thought it.”
“No I didn’t!” he shouts.
“You liar!” I shout back, even louder.
“Sam, I’m just saying something we both already know. We both know that you’re not the kind of woman I usually date,” he explains with theatrical rationality. “And you know I’m not the kind of guy you usually date.” He takes a moment to give me a protective look, puts his hand on my shoulder and rubs it gently. “Because guys like me are accustomed to superficial relationships, and you’re a special person who’s looking for true love.” He squeezes my shoulders in a reassuring, compassionate gesture. “That’s the real difference between us. You’re not looking for a guy like me…”
That must have been hard for him – he’s just admitted that he’s an asshole, as if there was ever any doubt about it.
“No, you’re totally right,” I say, deciding to go along with him and pushing him towards the door.
“See?” he says, sounding relieved.
“You’re really not my type.”
“Right, see?” he says, stumbling against the bed.
“I usually go out with a very, very different type of guy,” I say, raising an eyebrow. One step. Another. I force him towards the door.
“See? Exactly.” He nods in surprise. He probably didn’t expect me to start agreeing with him. Not this easily, at least.
“First of all, they’re a lot more muscular,” I say, just to rub it in. He stands there open mouthed. “And they are taller, much taller. And that’s without mentioning the clothes and… and the motorbikes.”