Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  I am sweating-balls nervous. The VIP lounge in an über-posh London nightclub is so not my scene. I am just plain old Vivia Perpetua Grant. Ugg-wearing, Groupon-using, Vivia. I haven’t had silicone implanted in my breasts or Botox injected in my face. My sisters jiggle and my forehead moves when I smile.

  The savages smell my fear. Two emaciated brunettes seated to my right keep eyeing my last-season Louboutins and fixing me with tight smiles.

  They move in for the kill before I can escape to the bathroom.

  I liberally lubricate my rusty courage with Poppy’s expensive champagne. By the time I have finished my flute, I am feeling smooth, mellow, and as entitled to be chilling in the VIP lounge as any other member of Poppy’s privileged posse.

  “The Parisian is insane, isn’t he?” says the brunette with slicked back hair. She looks like one of rhythmless models in the old Robert Palmer “Addicted to Love” video. “He is barking mad.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Martin.”

  I stare blankly. Apparently, I am supposed to know mad Martin.

  “Martin,” the second brunette repeats. “Solveig.”

  “I’m sorry. Who is Martin Solveig?”

  “The DJ.”

  Her unspoken “duh” hangs heavy in the electropop charged air.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, shrugging. “He’s great.”

  I want to say, “He’s an awesome DJ, but it’s a shame he’s spinning monotonous electropop with an uninspired, pretentious Eurotrash backbeat.”

  But I don’t.

  “What do you think of what he’s doing to Röyksopp and Robyn?”

  “Who?”

  They exchange looks.

  “That song”—the Robert Palmer brunette points at the speaker above our heads—“is by the band Röyksopp and Robyn.”

  “What do you think of the way he is mixing Röyksopp and Robyn with an old Blondie song?”

  The rolled eyes and outraged little exhalations tell me they don’t really care what I have to say about Milksop and Robin.

  “Honestly?” I say, a little drunk.

  They both nod like bitchy twin bobbleheads.

  “I hate electropop. Immensely. I would rather listen to Ronnie Radke sing “The Drug in Me is You,” or Josh Todd sing “Crazy Bitch,” or Austin Carlile sing the Teletubby theme song. Rock. Classic rock. Metal. Post-hardcore. That’s my kind of music. Not this seizure-inducing series of synthesized lines mixed with electronic drum beats and cold, dead robotic vocals. This is the ambient sound in a Star Wars flick. It’s mindless, soulless.”

  “Here! Here! Heed the words of wisdom ushered forth from the lips of the beautiful, albeit brash, American,” says a warbling voice that is more Mockney than Cockney, an affected upper-middle class British accent that one might expect from a cheeky street urchin with posh pretentions.

  I squint, hoping to put a face with the voice, but can’t see through the neon-tinted smoke machine haze. Out of the darkness comes a tall tattooed familiar form.

  It’s Bishop. Freaking. Raine.

  Hair teased and sprayed to resemble a cockatoo, eyeliner smudged around his eyes as if applied by a prepubescent Emo girl. Paisley silk shirt unbuttoned to his navel, half tucked into nut-hugging black leather pants. He’s rebel rocker-cum-Jesus. And he’s crazy sexy.

  “You are an American?” he asks.

  “California Girl.”

  The bobbleheads gasp at my inadvertent Kitty Kat reference, because Bishop dated the singer early in his career and the pair engaged in a tabloid war after their breakup. Bishop stares at me, stony-faced.

  “You know what they say about California girls?” I shouldn’t reference Kitty Kat’s song again, but some wicked inner demon is prodding me with his pitchfork. I always blather when I am nervous, and having Bishop Raine’s sexy smoldering eyeliner-ringed gaze fixed on me is making me very, very nervous. Not because he is a celebrity, but because he’s really cute. “California girls are unforgettable.”

  Nobody laughs. The bobblehead bitches turn away from me. Someone coughs. Everyone avoids making eye contact. Finally, Bishop laughs.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He barely takes a breath before launching into a monologue about electropop.

  “Electropop is a reflection of society’s ennui. It’s indicative of a larger problem within our culture; our inability to emote, to connect, due, in large part, to social media.”

  Bishop has a frenetic energy, speed talking, shooting words at me like bullets from a machine gun. It’s exhilarating.

  “It is pervasive, encroaching, disjointing, transforming us from free-thinking, autonomous individuals into blind, self-destructive lemmings, too ignorant to realize what is happening and too lazy to thwart it.”

  This leather clad Rasputin with kohl-smudged eyes and eighties glam rock hair has completely enthralled Poppy’s posse. Even the bobblehead bitches are nodding and murmuring with cult-like rapture. I dig Bishop’s bohemian chic ramblings, not because he’s a celebrity, but because I genuinely dig people brave enough to be different and intelligent enough to translate their motives for being different. Nevertheless, I am not enraptured.

  “What bullshit!”

  Bishop makes a rolling motion with his hand, indicating he would like me to proceed with my scintillating rebuttal.

  “I don’t believe social media is responsible for society’s downfall any more than I believe the president spends his spare time parting the Red Sea.”

  “Wha’?” Bishop slides onto the booth beside me, leaning his lanky body in close, nudging the bobbleheads away. “You don’t believe the American Messiah spends his free time performing miracles?”

  “Not unless you consider perfecting his golf drive a miracle.”

  “Ooo, lookee here,” he squeals, black eyes flashing. “We have ourselves a rare and endangered beast: a jaded conservative.”

  “Hardly!” I snort.

  “You’re not a jaded conservative, then?”

  “Jaded? A little. Conservative?” I tip more champagne into my flute, toss it back, and fix Mister Bishop Sexy Raine with my naughtiest expression. “Only out of the bedroom.”

  He chuckles.

  What the Jesus, Mary, and Gyrating Stripper am I doing? Am I really flirting with Kitty Kat’s ex-boyfriend?

  Poppy arrives, glowing and breathless.

  “Bishop, darling,” she says, pressing a kiss to his whiskered cheek. “How are you? Have you been introduced to my friend Vivia?”

  Bishop’s lips turn up in a mischievous grin. “No, actually, not formally.”

  “Bishop, this is my soon to be dear friend, Vivia Grant.” Poppy leans against the banquette, inadvertently giving the entire posse a peek down the front of her silky black jumper. “Vivia is from San Francisco.”

  “So, Vivia from San Francisco, what are you doing on this side of the pond?” Bishop asks. “What brings you to Londontown? A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker?”

  “Vivia is a magazine writer,” Poppy says. “A brilliant writer, in fact.”

  “Really?” Bishop leans forward. “How splendid! Did you feel that palpable shift in the atmosphere? Vivia from San Francisco just elevated the IQ level of the room. Perhaps this evening won’t be an endless parade of vapid nitwits ensconced in ignorance and glitter.”

  As if on cue, two beautiful blond barmaids wearing little more than British and American flag pasties on their nipples approach. The one wearing the American flag pasties holds a smartphone.

  Bishop ignores them.

  British Flag Pasties clears her throat. Bishop looks at the barmaids. The barmaids burst into piercing squeals.

  “Yeah, I know.” Bishop fixes them with a toothy grin. “I feel it too.”

  I snort.

  “Um, Mister Raine,” American Flag Pasties says in a breathy Marilyn Monroe-esque voice. “Can we take your photograph for the Boujis Blog?”

  �
�For the blog, you say?”

  American Flag Pasties giggles again, and the tassels hanging from her nipples sway back and forth. British Flag Pasties flutters her glitter-encrusted false eyelashes.

  “Well then,” Bishop says, leaping to his feet, “of course you may take a snappy. Anything for art.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me up to stand beside him.

  “You may steal my soul with your smartphone device, but only if Vivia Grant is also in the photo.”

  British Flag Pasties flutters her bovine falsies at Bishop again, but I can tell she’s pissed. If there were a thought bubble hovering over her head right now, it would read, “Ohmygod, like, we only take snappies of, like, famous people.”

  American Flag Pasties hands her smartphone to Poppy before positioning herself beside me, lips pursed duck-like, hand on hip, breasts thrust forward. British Flag Pasties drapes herself over Bishop.

  “On three,” Poppy says, her voice barely carrying over the ear-throbbing electropop. “One…two…three…”

  Poppy pushes the button and a bright flash of light momentarily blinds us. She hands the phone back to American Flag Pasties.

  “Would you mind sending me a copy of that photo?” I ask American Flag Pasties.

  “Absolutely,” she says, smiling. “Type your e-mail into my phone and I will send the photo to you right now.”

  I take her phone and type PerpetuallyVivia@yahoo.com.

  “Thanks.” I hand her phone back. “I really appreciate it.”

  An electropop beat later, the Patriotic Pasties have melted into the crowd.

  “We are living in a sequin-encrusted virtual prison,” Bishop says, sliding onto the booth beside me. “A sequin-encrusted prison where the economic elite hog along in plump luxury—destroying the planet as they go—and the destitute starve for sustenance of edification. We must stop this.”

  “I wish you would have told me that before I opted for this mini-dress!” I joke, giving my dress a little shimmy and shake. “I don’t wish to imprison you with my sequins.”

  “I surrender.” Bishop presses his wrists together. “Perhaps a sequins-encrusted prison is just the fing.”

  A cocktail waitress bearing a glass of iced water with a twist of lime appears, pasties pointing. She squats gracefully and hands Bishop the iced water.

  “Fank you,” Bishop says.

  “You’re welcome, Mister Raine.” She arches her back until her pasties nearly poke Bishop in the eye. “Can I bring you anything else?”

  The implication is as clear as the glass of iced water. Forget the lime twisted water; I’m the tall glass of something you’re looking for, Mister Funny Man. My cheeks flame with heat and I look away, pretending the action on the dance floor is suddenly all-absorbing.

  “Does it bother you?” I ask, after the waitress leaves.

  “Wha’?” Bishop’s eyes are wide with feigned incomprehension. “The notion of being imprisoned within your sequined dress? Not a’tall.”

  Poppy and her posse laugh. Bishop laughs, but shards of pain glint behind his sparkling eyes.

  The bobbleheads roll their eyes at me and change the subject by asking Poppy a question about Délais. While Poppy and the bobblehead bitches chat, the rest of the posse hit the dance floor.

  Bishop looks back at me, piercing me with his laser gaze. “Does wha’ bother me?”

  “That people work so hard to grasp something that is not real.”

  “Wha’? Are you saying I am not real?”

  “No,” I say, suddenly sober and sad. “You are real, but your rock star, sex machine, celebrity persona is not.”

  “Wha’? Are you saying I am not a sex machine?”

  He focuses a two-thousand-watt grin on me, and the champagne-induced warmth spreads from my cheeks to my thighs. His flirtatious manner and approachable sex appeal really discombobulate.

  Just when I think he’s not going to answer me, Bishop launches into a rapid-fire monologue, blitzing me with a barrage of archaic words and revolutionary notions on the vacuous world of celebritydom.

  “The phenomenon of celebrity exists to fill a void created by an appalling lack of morals. A pantheon of over-valued, over-paid, over-worshiped celebrities exists because the populace craves fame. They crave fame because they feel lost in the monotony and pointlessness of their existence. They feel lost because the world feels vast and empty. Fame, their brushes with fame, makes them forget we are essentially alone, moving through the universe without purpose or aim. Someone meets a celebrity, a celestial body who has been lifted far above their tiny world, and for a moment, they feel a flicker of purpose, passion, and connectivity.”

  He pauses, takes a sip of water, and fixes me with a probing, questioning stare.

  “Yes,” I say, fixing him with an equally probing stare. “But how does the vacuousness of celebritydom make you feel? How do you feel when a desperate being moves into your orbit just so they can feel less alone?”

  “Are you interviewing me? Is this for public consumption or merely your own edification?”

  Holy Sheisterburger! Bishop Raine just called me out.

  “I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t give my right breast to land an interview with you, but that’s not what this is about. I’m genuinely interested in your answer. Me,” I say, pressing my hand to my heart. “Vivia Grant the woman, not Vivia Grant the writer.”

  “Sacrificing your right breast in the pursuit of knowledge is a trifle extreme, luv,” Bishop says, grinning again. “How would you like to make a bargain?”

  “A bargain?”

  “A barter, trade, swap, quid pro quo…”

  “Yes,” I say, laughing. “I know what a bargain is. What did you have in mind?”

  He leans in close and his whiskered lips brush against my ear. “Here’s the fing. I will answer your question and grant you the coveted interview, and all you have to do is give me the tiniest of kisses.”

  “Wha’?” I say, imitating him. “Trade my journalistic integrity for a single story?”

  “Journalistic integrity? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  I slant him a withering look.

  He raises his hands in the air. “Kidding. Kidding.”

  Poppy sticks a fresh glass of champagne in front of my face, which is akin to tossing a bucket of water on Mister Bishop Sexy Raine’s smoldering mojo vibes. He’s pretty damned hypnotic with his intellectual mumbo-jumbo and his I’ll-rip-your-clothes-off-with-my-teeth gaze.

  “Here.” She presses the glass into my hand. “You look entirely too serious for this venue.”

  “Thanks.” I toss the champagne back in a single swallow and handing her my empty. “It’s just what I needed.”

  “Okay, California Girl,” Bishop says. “You can have your interview sans kiss.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He grins. “Now, fancy a dance?”

  Wait! What? Did Bishop Raine really just ask me to dance? This can’t be happening.

  Bishop stands, pulls me to my feet, dips me low, and plants a big, wet kiss on me. His tongue pushes between my lips, briefly, and I taste lime. The world starts spinning like a Boujis disco ball. I am vaguely aware of a pop, a flash of light, and then Bishop’s tongue withdraws, and I am standing, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

  “What just happened?”

  “Bishop kissed you,” one of the bobblehead bitches says, her lips curling in a fake smile. “And we hate you.”

  “You hate me?” I blink. “Because Bishop kissed me?”

  I am nonsensical. My world is still spinning, and I don’t know how to make it stop so I can get off. All I can think of is Luc. What he would say if he knew I was in a posh club macking with Bishop freaking Raine.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the other bobblehead says. “We don’t hate you because Bishop kissed you; we just hate you.”

  “Shut up, Katrine!” Poppy snaps.

  “We’re j
ust kidding.”

  “Well then, you’ve rather missed the mark, because nobody else is laughing.”

  Poppy pierces each of the twins with a don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I-will-stab-you-with-my-Louboutin-heel stare until they apologize.

  “No worries,” I say, teetering on my new heels.

  “Come on, Vivia,” Poppy says, linking her arm through mine. “Let’s take a walk.”

  We weave our way through the crush of sweaty perfumed bodies, but another of Poppy’s friends intercepts us before we reach the loo.

  “You go on, Vivia,” Poppy says. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  I leave Poppy near the dance floor and hurry to the loo. I can feel my Dior lip gloss smeared around my mouth, shiny, sticky proof of Bishop Raine’s unexpected oral assault.

  I hear my best friend’s voice in my head.

  “Was he worth the Dior?”

  Yes. Yes, he was.

  Chapter 7

  A Right Royal Cock-Up

  Text to Stéphanie Moreau:

  OMG! You’ll never guess where I am or what just happened!

  Text from Stéphanie Moreau:

  In some swanky hotel in the 7ème, having sexy time with your gorgeous boyfriend?

  Text to Stéphanie Moreau:

  No! In the loo at Boujis, a posh London club. Bishop Raine just French kissed me.

  My phone rings so loud, I nearly drop it in the toilet. Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me” echoes in the tiny stall. That’s right, Bret Michaels singing old school hairband rock. Electropop? Whatever. I jab the red circle on my iPhone screen to answer the call.

  “Hello?” I whisper.

  “Why are you still in London? What do you mean you were French kissing Bishop Raine? Where is Jean-Luc? How does he feel about you French kissing some sleazy comedian?”

  Fanny is the most supportive and loyal friend ever. When my ex-fiancé broke off our engagement on the eve of our wedding and got me fired from my job at San Francisco Magazine, Fanny methodically picked up the shards of my shattered life and helped me superglue them back together. She even rode shotgun on my biking “honeymoon” through Provence and Tuscany.

  Second, she can be a relentless interrogator. I am talking Spanish Inquisition relentless, putting-you-on-the-rack-and-stretching-your-limbs-like a-rubber-band relentless.