by P. J. Fox
“Charlotte, stop!” If Charlotte hadn’t finished her drink, Belle would have. Even though she didn’t drink. Well, not much. “I do like men. I just…haven’t met the right one. And I want it to be special.”
“It’s not special.” Charlotte wrinkled up her nose in disgust for this outdated concept. “Trust me. It’s painful and disgusting and you won’t have an orgasm. Not for, at least, the first five or six or ten times. Or guys. Some guys are really bad at it. There was this one guy….”
But Belle wasn’t listening. She was watching people dance, below. Most of them, like Charlotte, wearing even less than she. How was that legal? She’d heard Charlotte’s stories before. She’d heard all of them. Still, she didn’t mind. She nodded and hummed in all the right places, knowing that Charlotte liked to talk. Liked to coddle her opinions, indeed, like a bevy of treasured pets. She exercised them regularly, too.
And when she wasn’t doing that, she talked about her former lovers: the one whose penis was too small, the one who hadn’t washed under his foreskin, the one who wanted her to tie him up and sodomize him with a cucumber and the other one whose toy had gotten…stuck. That must have been a heck of a trip to the ER. Belle wished Charlotte told that part of the story, but she never had.
Oh, how to explain. To Charlotte, or anyone. Belle was interested in men. She’d lain awake at night wondering, more than once, whether she’d ever meet Mr. Right and why she seemed cursed to be alone. Her problem wasn’t lack of enthusiasm, but rather lack of exposure. She didn’t like other dancers. They were too much like her: high strung and prone to perfectionism. She didn’t appeal to the boys she met in class. Once, after weeks of psyching herself up, she’d asked a classmate of hers out for coffee. He’d laughed at her and she’d just about died of embarrassment. Recalling that afternoon still brought twin flames of shame and mortification to her cheeks.
Her friends told her that she was a catch, that undoubtedly every boy she met wanted to date her, but the proof was in the pudding. Belle was too awkward and too opinionated to be attractive. She wouldn’t know how to flirt with a man if she tried; her few attempts had turned into serious discussions of world issues. Her friends, she’d long ago decided, were just trying to make her feel better. If she were really such a catch, then she’d get more from boys than blank looks.
Or laughter.
Or maybe her standards were too high. In the end, she was a “happily ever after” kind of girl. She believed in the fairy tale. When other girls made derisive comments about Disney’s foolish and boy-hungry princesses, riding off into the sunset with virtual strangers just to be married—with equally vapid princes, mind you, caricatures who might as well be cardboard cutouts for all the personality they displayed—Belle sighed with happiness.
She wanted that: to be swept off her feet and carried off to a castle. To find her own fairy tale ending with the man of her dreams. Most of the people she knew, who were married, shouldn’t be so. Their lives seemed like unending marches of petty recriminations, stored resentments, and the feeling that something better was probably just around the corner. Belle’s fantasies were dismissed by her friends—and her mother, of course—as stupid, but Belle couldn’t help but wonder if they’d settled for too little.
Charlotte asked her a question and she didn’t respond. Here was Charlotte, so happy to be at this dreadful club—and for what? Belle didn’t see the attraction of going out, just for the sake of going out, when she could be at home sketching or reading a book. More and more, she felt like she was out of step with the entire world.
She returned to her article, resolutely scrutinizing the tiny print. She was still on page one. Uncapping her pen, she wrote a note in the margin. Each letter was precisely formed, nearly as small and perfect as the print itself.
“You know,” Charlotte commented, “the paper already has words.”
“Yes, yes,” Belle replied, irritated. “And now you’re going to tell me once again how I need to get out more.”
“You should listen to me.” Charlotte’s tone was airy. “I’m named after a queen.”
“Well at least you’re not Blathnat.”
“Who?”
“A queen of West Munster. She—”
“It sounds like a sneeze.”
“Be nice to me or I’ll start reading aloud.”
A few minutes later, the other girls returned. Sherri, Carrie and Alex. Sherri was wearing a dress similar to Belle’s, only with electric blue lace instead of sequins covering the vital bits. Carrie had managed to pour herself into a black latex tube sock and Alex was…Belle didn’t have words for what Alex was. Nor did she particularly care; these were Charlotte’s friends. She focused on her work with a grim determination as they chatted on around her.
“Wow,” Alex commented, “you’ve gotten to page two.”
“I need a drink.” Belle glanced up. Sherri most certainly did not need a drink.
“Did you see that guy?” Alex was reapplying lip gloss. “He—”
“Maybe I should switch to water.”
That’s the ticket, Belle thought. Sherri should’ve switched to water an hour ago. She’d been pre-gaming since before they’d gotten on the train and had, Belle was fairly sure, already anointed one toilet with vomit. Perhaps she’d taken a page from the late and unlamented Emperor Nero’s book: party, vomit up the excess, and party on. The so-called vomitoria at public arenas weren’t in fact designated vomiting spots. They were, rather, the tunnels used to exit the games and had been christened vomitoria for reasons that anyone who’d been to a Bruins game would understand.
But Nero, like Sherri, had made excess a goal in and of itself.
The conversation dragged on, about all the boys they’d met and who had offered to buy them a drink and who hadn’t. Charlotte, as usual, had emerged the winner. She was the type of girl who could walk into a room full of complete strangers and come out ten minutes later with a gold watch, an invitation to go skiing in the Alps and a marriage proposal.
“That looks really boring,” Alex commented, lighting a cigarette.
Belle, who hated the smell of smoke, said nothing.
A shadow fell over the table, blocking what little light there was, and Belle’s heart lurched. It was him. She looked up, fully expecting to see her watcher standing over her with that unreadable expression, his eyes boring into hers. But it wasn’t him; it was one of the club’s few waiters. Discomfited, he cleared his throat and made a stab at a smile. Belle, realizing that she’d been staring, averted her gaze. No one else said anything.
“I, ah, good evening, ladies,” he said in English. “The gentleman over there”—he gestured—”would like to buy you each a drink.”
“Sex on the beach!” Sherri giggled. She could be such an ass, sometimes. Like a little boy who’d never left third grade. Charlotte ordered an old fashioned, Carrie a seven and seven—her notion of sophistication—and Alex, predictably, whiskey. She had a thing for American whiskeys, and was convinced they’d be the next big thing. Or gin, but only the kind of gin that could be served with a cucumber. Whatever that was. None of them questioned the source of the drink; none of them were even curious about the man who’d made the offer. Free alcohol was free alcohol, and Charlotte at least had made living on the bounty of others into an art form. She bragged regularly that she never had to eat alone, or pay for any meal, if she didn’t want to.
“And you, madam?” He was looking at her.
“I—nothing for me,” Belle said.
“Nothing?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Well. Very good.” The waiter vanished.
Only then did discussion begin on who the man might be. Belle glanced over at the table where her watcher had been; he was gone. She breathed a sigh that was half relief, half disappointment. Why she should be disappointed, she didn’t know. The man was hardly her type. The opposite of her type, really. Some dissipate roué who dressed up to go to clubs. The male version of Charlo
tte.
As if hearing her name in Belle’s head, Charlotte turned. Her face wore a look of purpose that Belle knew entirely too well. “Why don’t you—”
Before Charlotte could begin again, this time in front of an audience, Belle stood up. She snatched the article off the table and shoved it at her folder, botching the job and nearly dropping the whole mess onto the floor.
“I need to use the bathroom,” she said.
She didn’t, really, but she needed space. And she needed an excuse to leave the table that wasn’t I hate you all. Normally, Charlotte and her friends didn’t bother Belle all that much. They were, after all, the closest thing she had to friends in Dresden.
But tonight, at this exact moment, Belle had reached her quota for unsolicited advice. Most of which went something along the lines of, have more fun. She turned from the table, her cheap folder clutched to her thin chest. Yes, she thought grimly, what a novel idea. Have more fun. As if Belle was somehow choosing not to have fun. Or was allergic to the idea. Surely, the fact that she studied so hard must only be because she loved to suffer. Perish the thought that she might want to wake up in the morning and do something else.
No, the concept of willpower was alien to these people.
And why shouldn’t it be? None of them had ever worked an honest day in their lives. If they didn’t feel like going to class, they didn’t go. There was, after all, no real need for them to be there in the first place. College was, for them, something to do. The right thing to do. That thing people do. They weren’t there because they had to be, like Belle.
She didn’t resent them for their wealth but, sometimes, she wished they understood.
Sometimes, they reminded Belle of her mother. Belle had suffered from insomnia since she was a small child and, when she was in high school, her mother used to tell her to “get some sleep.” Yes Mother, she’d felt like replying, because the only reason I’m not sleeping is that I’ve made a conscious decision not to. I surely must be keeping myself awake on purpose, just to spite myself. That Belle would like to have more fun hadn’t, seemingly, occurred to anybody.
Alex, Charlotte, all of them could afford to sit on their asses and smoke for the rest of their miserable lives and no one would care. Least of all them, with their trust funds. Belle didn’t begrudge them the money, but she did loathe their ignorance. They honestly didn’t seem to understand that for Belle, college wasn’t some finishing school. She had to go; she had to find a job; she had to work, or she’d be out on the street. Like most people.
Except, of course, the people at this table—none of whom seemed familiar with the concept and all of whom had adopted the mind-numbingly frustrating viewpoint that Belle must simply not want to have fun. To focus on her art; to travel; to take what Alex called a me day.
“What,” Charlotte called after her, “afraid someone will steal it?”
Belle didn’t respond.
So engrossed was she in her own thoughts that she barely noticed where she was going. The frustration of not being understood was so acute that she wanted to scream. Or sob. Or maybe this night was a bust because almost from the beginning she’d been plagued by thoughts she didn’t want to have and couldn’t seem to escape. She vowed, once again, that this was going to be the last night of her life as she knew it.
And she’d never, never again go to a nightclub.
She hated nightclubs. She was twenty fucking years old and she felt much older; years of parenting her alcoholic father had aged her. How much more of her life was she going to spend doing things she didn’t want to do, to please people who were un-pleasable?
She hated this club in particular. Beneath the veneer of posh overindulgence was the same low-grade desperation that could be found at any club. Belle had dragged her father out of bars that were just like this. They all smelled, that was the first thing: of food and body odor and cigarettes. It wasn’t normal body odor, either; it was the thin, sour smell of alcohol being excreted through a hundred thousand pores. Top shelf vodka or mouthwash, the sweat always smelled the same. People might as well plaster dollar bills to their armpits. After all, then—
“Oh!”
FOUR
“Excuse me,” she said, flustered.
She hadn’t seen who she’d bumped into, only felt the solidity of the impact. And then it occurred to her that whoever it was probably didn’t speak English and her German was still halting and besides ninety-six percent of Prague residents spoke Czech and she didn’t speak a word of Czech and she wasn’t sure how to retrieve her folder without exposing herself…the articles were all over the floor.
“It’s no trouble at all,” said a cultured voice. Low, warm, and amused, it had just the faintest trace of a British accent. Almost too faint to trace and…exotic somehow.
She looked up.
It was him.
“You!” she blurted out, immediately reddening as she realized how rude she must sound. She couldn’t see herself but she could feel the heat of the blood as it rushed to her cheeks. She must, in the last ten seconds, have turned the color of a beet.
“Yes,” he replied easily. “I’m Ash. Ashwin,” he added.
“The delight of existence,” Belle said without thinking. Again. “The Ashvins are the twin powers whose primary function is to affect enjoyment. The name means divine cavalier.” The Ashvins also symbolized sunrise and sunset, riding across the cosmos in chariots. Much like Apollo, in the Greek myths. But Belle didn’t add this part; she bit her lip, instead, in an effort to keep her mouth closed. Even though, as her mother would say, the horse was already out of that barn. Still, she could keep from making things even worse.
“Ah. Most people respond with a reference to The Far Pavilions,” he replied, still with that vague smirk flickering around the corners of his mouth.
It was a good-looking mouth, and firm, if his lips were slightly too full. He had a square jaw, and the look of a man who’d come into existence as the result of inbreeding. Belle had seen the same look before, on television, watching the comings and goings of various royal families.
He was very good-looking, but something about him…repulsed her. Made her feel obscurely afraid. She couldn’t put her finger on what, only thinking that she wished she’d never come here. She didn’t want to talk to him. He made her feel even more off balance than usual and she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was laughing at her. Not the way that boy had laughed in class, that had been crude and unthinking. There was a considered element, here, as though he found her fascinating. Like how a child of a certain disposition might study a moth as he burned it alive with a magnifying glass.
“Ash was Ashton—or Ashok, depending on which interpretation of the story you favor.” She was rambling again. “Or perhaps no one at all; wasn’t that the point? And he was gay, besides.” She paused. “Moreover,” she added, almost defensively, “I’ve gathered from my friends at school that references to the so-called paean to colonialism aren’t popular.” Then again, he did speak with a British accent. So maybe he did like the book.
He laughed. A restrained, musical sound. “You know something of our culture, then.”
“I’m in international relations. It’s my job to know a little about a lot.” She bent at the knees, gathering up her articles. She pressed her thighs together and devoutly hoped that she wasn’t exposing herself.
He made no move to help her, only watched.
“Ah,” he said. “A professional dilettante. Who brings her work with her.”
“Homework, actually.” Belle stood up. “I hate clubs.”
There, she’d said it. And to this man, of all people. This man who was making her more and more nervous and who she devoutly hoped would go away. As handsome as he was, something about him just wasn’t right. She still couldn’t put her finger on what, but over the years she’d learned to trust her sixth sense. And, she was discovering, she really did need to go to the bathroom.
But Ash, her watcher, was standing bet
ween her and the door to the ladies’ room. He appeared to have just emerged from the lavatory himself. She swallowed, thinking of a polite way to end the conversation. And to signal, as firmly as possible, that she had no interest.
In whatever his game was.
“You’re…taken, then?”
“No,” she replied, immediately cursing herself for her stupidity. That had been her opening! She should’ve told him she was married. Very married. To a very large and scary man. But she was only twenty, and she looked younger. A claim to marriage would hardly be believable. Or would it? There were plenty of places in the world where a woman her age was a mother twice over. Only in America was forty considered a sensible time to tie the knot. She reddened again. This was terrible.
“A single girl who brings her homework to a bar,” he mused.
“Please, really, I have to—”
“Was it the drink,” he asked, “or me?”
There was a strange note to his tone that Belle didn’t like. “You,” she said.
“I see.”
Belle reached the end of her rope. She thought she had, before, but she’d been wrong. She’d been holding on with the ends of her fingernails and now she went into free-fall, her words spinning out of control as she lost whatever inhibitions she had left. Anger, she’d decide in retrospect, was a powerful thing. It could change your life.
Or end it.
The words surprised her, even as they poured forth. She didn’t even know where they came from, or what had inspired her to choose now of all times for her foray into the world of honesty. But once she started, she couldn’t stop.
“I don’t begrudge people their money,” she said, “I resent their lack of common sense. And I hate Eurotrash. You’re exactly the sort of person I see smoking on the steps between classes. You greet each other with air kisses, immediately speak of your last trip—which naturally has to have been somewhere exciting—and plan your next date to whatever ‘see and be seen’ café is hot right now. Where you sit for hours, smoking more cigarettes and drinking espresso, because cappuccino isn’t cool enough, waiting for someone to admire your hundred dollar tee-shirt.