Never Understand Part One ( Johnthen Trent Adult Romance 1)

by Miranda Mailer

  We’re not late but the gallery is full already. There is a fine, high atrium in which Andrea’s installations, sculptures and paintings are artfully set, and a mezzanine level above where one or two lovebirds have already strayed to escape the madding crowd below. I’m impressed that Andrea can rustle up this crowd. She’s even better connected than I thought.

  It looks like a fabulous party. Phoebe and I catch the buzz early. There are gorgeous models, male and female, stalking around half-naked in outfits by up-and-coming designers. There are earnest journalists, artists, performance artists – Andrea’s tribe– combined with the big honchos of the money markets. Most of the minor celebs have actually turned up – and more besides. Andrea has also managed to shake down some money men to pay for the oversized bottles of Veuve Cliquot champagne, which about a dozen smart young men in bolero jackets are assiduously pressing onto the masses. A scene of Babylonian excess.

  To those who have shall more be given, as my father would be saying in his moralistic tone. My father may be in the Entertainment Industry, but he’s against anything that resembles fun. He’s against anyone having it too easy in life - except himself. But even I can see something obscene about these wealthy people, whose outfits alone cost more than a thousand bucks, not even paying for their own drinks.

  But you won’t hear me complaining. After working at La Serenissima for the last year, waiting on all those rich folks, I have no problem whatever wasting some rich guy’s money for him.

  One of the young champagne-carriers seems to be following me. Is it his private joke to get me drunk? Again, not complaining, and neither is Phoeb. If I give a wave to young sticketh-closer-than-a-brother who is tracking me in his Bolero jacket, he comes over with his enormous bottle of champagne right on cue, like a healing zephyr. This kind of thing makes a girl feel different; no longer penniless out-of-work actress, Jana Kidd. Champagne makes a woman richer, cooler, and cleverer. And a patron of the arts, to boot. That’s how it works, isn’t it?

  The lightly bubbling nectar is going to my head. It tingles on my tongue, even slightly in my nose. Sweetly hedonistic. I don’t get to enjoy a party like this so often. After the first few minutes I am telling myself to calm down and resist the next refill of champagne – but mostly failing.

  Phoebe too has gone into turbo-bouncy cheerful mode and she’s loving the male-female ratio, which is nicely in our favour. She adores having Josh as a boyfriend, but tonight she’s off the leash because he’s not here. I remember why she’s my best friend. She really is the best fun. I try to get her talking about the art, which, as the title “Icons of Resistance” suggests, is mostly about symbols of freedom and the struggle against repression – Nelson Mandela and The Dalai Lama of course. A giant, Roy Liechtenstein-like image of Aung San Suu Kyi fluttering her eyelashes at Obama. But there are also people I’ve never heard of - like Liu Shao Qi, who sounds like some kind of Chinese Jesus, and also a scruffy American professor called Noam Chomsky. What’s he doing there?

  My thinking is to at least have some intelligent phrases to mouth when a handsome fellow tests me in conversation. ‘What do you know about Chomsky, Phoeb?’ I ask, gleefully, knowing the answer is zip. She doesn’t even see the joke. She’s fingering her champagne glass suggestively, while her eyes flick around the crowd of good-looking guys in suits.

  ‘Chomsky? All I know is, this place is full of hot guys,’ she says, distracted by the male eye-candy. She’s not listening to me at all. ‘This is a target-rich environment, Jana. You need to find a guy, and this could be your night. We usually stick together, but what do you say we give it an hour, then see who’s talking to the hottest guy at nine o’clock?’

  ‘What if they’re both hot and we can’t agree who’s won?’

  ‘Doh, then we’ll both have won. Let’s find each other at nine. And if the guy’s taken me up to that mezzanine, you’re not allowed to come looking!’

  It’s a deal, and we go off in separate directions to force our attentions onto one group of guys after another. Now, in theory this shouldn’t be too difficult for two single girls with all those men and free champagne to ease the flow of wit and laughter, but actually, it’s not that easy. Most of the guys have had long days at work and are happy just to talk to their friends. They’re not that interested. And if they are interested, they’re finding it hard to lift their eyes above my breasts.

  Thankfully, they are not interested in Chomsky either. Or even Mandela. I do get to talk to a couple of stunning male models, really lovely boys. Though they’re fun, they don’t really have much to say for themselves and despite they’re A++ looks airheads are not really my type. The wine waiter who’s following me with that bottle of champagne that holds about three gallons is looking cuter every time I look his way, and I’d swear he wants to pour that whole bottle into my glass.

  Oh my.

  Now a second guy has tried to explain the unfairness of Mark-to-Market in swaps derivatives. All very interesting, no doubt, but not the right thing to spring on a girl after a couple of glasses of fizz. I’d rather have Chomsky! Bolero boy with the champagne gives me a knowing smile, as if he too is tired of Mark-to-Market, and fills me up.

  Still no theater directors on the prowl for undiscovered talent, which is probably just as well given that I’m a little off the top of my professional game here. I’ve settled in to enjoy a great evening, and to hell with the networking opportunity.

  I decide to take a break from the “hot guy hunt” and glance around for some female company. There are three women with some guys in the next little knot of people. I go over to introduce myself. From behind, one of the guys looks a good prospect. Blond hair, good body and tight buns. I make a mental note to check him out and come back.

  But as I pass behind him, I overhear him say, ‘So, Henry. Been getting some ass?’

  I roll my eyes and walk on by. Jerk! Then I recognise the voice. It’s Josh. Josh Lake. That’s a surprise and not a welcome one. Still, hearing Josh make that juvenile remark will help me get over him once and for all. Low-life. I make a point of not looking round. It doesn’t look like Phoebe’s with him though. She must have seen him. Perhaps she’s with some other guy and found a corner where Josh won’t see her. Go Phoeb!

  I join a couple of other women and start a conversation about Nelson Mandela. You can’t go wrong talking about Mandela. Mandela’s a good guy, he’s a great guy. He’s sweet. So long in prison, yet such dignity… It’s so easy to talk about Mandela, say great things and mean it. If Josh sees me, he’ll at least see me being sensible. Female lore tells me I should be with another hot guy just to rub Josh’s nose in it, but right now the “hot guy hunt” doesn’t seem like such a fun game. It’s the last thing I need, what with Massimo locking me in a room with Mr Dark and Mysterious, and now Josh Lake showing his true colors.

  The truth is, however antsy Dark and Mysterious made me feel, I’ve been knee-deep in alpha males recently, and what I really need is another champagne-loving gal. As far as male company goes, my faithful champagne bearer will do fine. I glance round to see if I can see Phoebe. Still no sign. Perhaps she really IS staying away from Josh and if so, she has my respect.

  I’m still looking. There’s Andrea. And… shit. That is who I think it is: Johnthen Trent as Andrea calls him, and she’s looking up at him, facing him. I can only see his lean, muscular back draped in the suit, and the dark, thick hair playing over the collar of his shirt - I’d recognise it anywhere. His back is broad and virile, but unsettling too. His hair is dark and thick, and slightly long over his clean white collar. That’s him. Dark and Deep. John. No wonder Andrea’s waving her arms about nervously as she talks to him. Sculpted features, dreamily handsome, but a sexual predator if ever I saw one. I give myself a pat on the back for the way I dealt with him yesterday.

  That look on his face in the video clip when he was seventeen said it all. He was dirt poor, no education, but he had innate style and a grace in the way he moved around. He’s m
ade it to a position of wealth and power, and he didn’t do that with just his looks and a little style. He must have been ruthless. He’d be ruthless with a woman too, however tenderly he kisses her. I have to remember that. Which power-dressing female from corporate finance will he be performing due diligence on tonight?

  I turn away so he won’t see me. My shoes are beginning to hurt already. It’s going to be a long night. In front of me are a charcoal-suited female lawyer and a male model whose outfit is so outlandish that I think at first he’s come as a pirate – I mean it’s one hundred percent Vegas, maybe a doorman at Treasure Island Hotel. Not surprisingly, conversation between them is strained. Some sadistic streak in me decides to strain it further.

  ‘So, what do you think of Chomsky,’ I say to Pirate Boy. It’s mean, I know. I look at him expectantly, but to his credit he opens his mouth to reply, like an ornamental goldfish racking its one-second memory. It’s a champagne moment, so I take another sip, looking enquiringly at him over the glass.

  Sadly, we are interrupted. Josh Lake. Joshua-fucking-Lake, money and sex robot, screwing things up for me again.

  ‘Hey, Jana. So have you… reconsidered the handcuffs yet?’ Josh wears an arch smile, and a wolfish look in his eye. Like he’s sooo cool, and I’m sooo embarrassed, but attracted to him as well, of course. Another time it would be cute, or funny. Right now, he’s just a conceited jerk, and he’s come to deliberately embarrass me. Which, weirdly, means he still wants me – if I’m not mistaken?

  My mind is still whirring with that odd thought when the reply escapes my mouth. ‘Handcuffs? To symbolize repression?’ I act like he’s made the crassest suggestion. In fact I’m amazed at my slick riposte. Must be the pain from my shoes, sobering me up. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit facile, Josh? Even for you?’

  Lawyer Girl smiles at me as if to say, You go girl.

  ‘Ha, yeah! It’s not like it’s a fancy dress contest,’ says Pirate Boy, glad to change subject from Chomsky. I practically wet myself trying not to laugh. Fancy dress? Did the guy in the pirate costume just say that? I catch the eye of Lawyer Girl and we both bite our lips to resist the snigger. Josh can think of nothing, which is just as it should be. He turns away slightly, as if he’s not with us, as if he never took part in the exchange, but I feel his tall presence by my side, and I determine not to look round. He’ll be back with some smart quip. He’ll get his own back, and I’d better be ready.

  ‘You were saying about Chomsky,’ says Lawyer Woman to me with a sparkle in her eye. OK, it was naughty of me to throw that one at Pirate Boy, but now she’s called my bluff, and it’s my turn to avoid the goldfish look and talk about Chomsky. I begin to laugh, which is all I can do, but help is at hand.

  ‘His politics, or his theories of linguistics?’ pipes up Jack Sparrow Jnr.

  ‘Err… linguistics,’ I say, and I burst out laughing, assuming Pirate Boy knows as little as me about Chomsky.

  I’m still laughing, but then, ouch! OUCH! That bastard Josh just pinched my butt, hard. Asshole. I’m determined not to make a scene, because that’s exactly what he wants. He wants me to lose it, after who knows how many glasses of champagne, and he’ll deny he touched me, and I’ll make an idiot of myself.

  I’m not going to rise to it. I’ve got to be cool, and I am an actress after all.

  But I can’t do nothing. I calmly swap my champagne glass to the other hand, and take my time. My toes are killing me by now in these shoes, and I channel the anger. There’s a waft of Josh’s aftershave. My free hand finds Josh’s butt to my right and gives it a good hard pinch. Mmm... his butt feels so fine, I have to admit. Better than I remember. Tight and firm. Muscular. I feel a flipping sensation in my belly in spite of myself.

  Relax, Jana, I repeat to myself. Ignore him. Josh is an asshole. He is an asshole. I take a drink of champagne and turn away from him, only to see Josh’s back disappearing into the crowd in the other direction. Shit, shit, shit! Josh just pinched my butt and then walked off – that’s why I smelled a waft of his aftershave as he walked behind me. I’ve just pinched some other guy’s butt. Definitely not Josh Lake’s.

  Everything happens in slow-mo. I turn back in that over-controlled way that only the inebriated can master, and find myself face to face with Andrea Davison. Confusion. It certainly wasn’t her butt that I just pinched.

  ‘Jana,’ she says, kind of knowingly. ‘This is Johnthen Trent. Johnthen tells me you two may have met,’ says Andrea.

  Lawyer Woman looks at me. A look that unmistakably says, I’m getting high just on this guy’s pheromones, and you’ve just pinched his exquisitely toned, silk-suited ass. She assumes I am a nerveless, wanton partygirl - but clearly admires me for it. If only she knew the rest of the story.

  Johnthen is looking down at me, his eyes are laughing and an eyebrow is arched. As well it might be. I feel as though I have to explain myself. Josh I can handle, but this guy… I’m weak at the knees. My mouth gapes. Goldfish time.

  Lawyer Woman puts the icing on the cake. ‘Jana was just telling us about Chomsky’s theory of Linguistics, Johnthen. She knows all about it, don’t you Jana?’

  Four of them look expectantly at me. Answer that one, Jana Kidd.

  Chapter 8: Battery Park, New York City, Tuesday 9 May

  ‘I’ve always been fascinated by Chomsky, too. Amazing to think he wrote his first research paper in Linguistics in 1957, and he’s still a professor.’

  No, that’s not me talking. Mr Deep and Gorgeous has had an uncharacteristic spasm of gallantry and helped me out there. Does he know what he’s talking about? Do I care?

  His voice pours over me, all relaxed authority and knowing smile, every inch the super-successful music company boss. He could be telling me Chomsky had just landed from Venus and it would make no difference. His voice is not only smooth and rich – it kind of resonates, quivering my stomach and I swear in between my legs as well. His gold, searching eyes are on me again, unusual and fascinating and I can’t help looking into them. I’m suddenly aware it’s hot in here. There’s a rivulet of sweat that trickles down my spine into the curve and cleft of my tailbone, pooling above my bottom. He’s talking Chomsky, but for some reason this man makes me acutely aware of my body, and I’ll swear he’s just cranked up the thermostat. He’s tall and in that suit and with that face and those lips and the fingers – he is sex on legs.

  I move uneasily from side to side on my shoes. I’m a little drunk, my shoes are burning, my feet like hell and it’s so hot. My body is telling me this guy could be so good for me, but my conscious mind is telling me the opposite. I tell myself again - he’s a hunter, a predator, and he’s found me - again. How many women are there to choose from in here? There must be two hundred women in here, yet he’s zeroed in on me. What is it? Am I some kind of little challenge for him? I suddenly catch myself looking at him and twirling my hair for a second. I stop, but he spotted it for sure.

  The Lawyer Woman is letting her eyes drift up and down his long, fit body in a way that is even more wanton than I feel. Only then do I notice her wedding ring. Are married women allowed to do this kind of thing?

  I remember myself and speak to Andrea. I need to thank her and tell her how fabulous it all is.

  ‘Andrea, congratulations! This is a great party. So many cool people, designers and artists and all. You must be so proud. Great party. And I can’t believe you got someone to fund all this champagne. I guess these Wall Street guys are swimming in money.’

  ‘Um, yeah, the champagne was a late addition,’ says Andrea, smiling and peeking an eye up at Johnthen. Looking kind of grateful and guilty. Which is odd since she’s master of getting people to do things for her. Does that mean he’s donated..? She is clearly embarrassed. Because she’s accepted so much money? It must have been a lot of money.

  Johnthen isn’t embarrassed. ‘Least I could do, Andrea,’ he says, but still with his eyes on me as he spoke to her. ‘Your work is so original, and important, and you got all the
se people together. I did what little I could to help.’

  Andrea is embarrassed, it’s clear as day. ‘I am uncomfortable, I guess,’ she says. ‘You didn’t ask for anything in return, Johnthen, and I don’t like that. It’s a lot of money. The Wall Street guys always make sure to get their money’s worth.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he says, laughing gently. ‘I probably made ten or twenty thousand bucks while we’ve been chatting here. Don’t sweat it.’

  But Andrea is sweating it. Johnthen Trent, singer, songwriter and producer has invited himself at the last minute, sponsored the party to the tune of twenty grand or whatever, and his presence alone has probably doubled the numbers. Just turning up would have been a big deal for Andrea. Why is he doing this?

  Or is it just that Dark and Deep makes Andrea feel uncomfortable in the way he does to me? Very attractive, but intense, and worryingly unfathomable. Has he been hitting on her as well? The idea gives me a stab of jealousy. Why is he doing this, what does he want?

  I have to deal with this guy. Head on. It sounds scary but I have to get things straight with him.

  ‘Johnthen,’ I say.

  ‘You used my name. Things are looking up,’ he jokes.

  ‘Johnthen, can you and I talk for a moment?’

  I expect the triumphant but steely smile in his eyes for a second, like the seventeen year-old at the end of the video, knowing that he’d won all those women. He hasn’t triumphed over me, and I’m not going to let him get away with all this. I look again for the alpha-male smile of steely amusement, but there’s a softer look there. He says nothing, but his look has changed subtly and he places his fingers coolly on my lower back, and steers me away from Andrea and the others. My mind speculates wildly whether he’s actually going to listen to me for once, or whether he’s going to drag me up to the mezzanine and …