Fly Me to the Moon

by Alyson Noel

  “So where are you taking me?” I asked.

  “Where else? Dinner and a show.” He smiled.

  . . .

  After another amazing meal at a trendy little brasserie, Max grabbed my hand and led me down the crowded, seedy boulevard past a steady stream of peep shows and adults-only nightclubs, which just made me even more curious about what he could possibly have in mind. I mean so far, from everything I’d seen, this place was definitely out of our usual comfort zone.

  “So how about just a little hint?” I asked, leaning into him. He seemed so excited about his secret agenda that I couldn’t resist trying to coax it out of him.

  “No hints,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. “You just have to wait and see.”

  We continued walking down the bright and busy boulevard de Clichy, past numerous nightclubs and bars, and the second I saw it I knew. But not wanting to spoil the surprise, I didn’t say a word until that unmistakable red neon windmill was directly in front of us.

  Of course! Max was taking me to one of the most famous cabarets in the world. “Oh, le Moulin Rouge!” I said excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to see that show.” I squeezed his hand and gazed up at him. Leave it to Max to find a classy place in the midst of all this.

  “Complete tourist trap,” he said with disdain, pulling me right past it.

  I turned back to glance at that well-known sign. “But . . . have you already seen it?” I asked, trying not to sound disappointed.

  “No, and I don’t want to. It’s strictly for tourists, and a total waste of money. But don’t worry, I’m taking you somewhere far more authentic.” He nodded.

  I just looked at him and smiled, thinking how he’d yet to show me a bad time. And then suddenly, we veered onto a dark, narrow alley, stopping in front of a windowless building with a single black door.

  After nodding at a large, swarthy bouncer, Max slipped him some euros and pulled me inside. And as we entered a small, dim room with peeling wallpaper and a heavy red curtain acting as a divider, I searched in vain for some kind of signage that would tell me where I was.

  “Have you been here before?” I asked, searching his face for some kind of clue.

  “A few times.” He shrugged, refusing to say any more.

  And just when I thought I couldn’t stand the suspense, a pale, short man in a dark shiny suit, frayed white shirt, and an old maroon tie stepped through the curtain. And the second he saw Max he smiled and said, “Monsieur Dunne! How nice to see you. Your usual table, I presume?” Then he parted the drapes and led us into a small square room where an oval stage dominated the center, while cloth-covered tables with small flickering candles were arranged all around.

  As we settled at a front-row center table, I was amazed at how Max always knew the best places and got the best seats. Then I gazed around the room, watching as it began to fill with casually dressed couples, groups of rowdy executives, and a few solitary stragglers.

  “How’d you even find this place?” I asked, turning back to Max and watching as he studied the drink menu. “I mean there are no signs or anything.”

  But he just smiled. And when the scantily clad cocktail waitress appeared at our table, he ordered a scotch on the rocks for himself and a glass of Bordeaux for me.

  “Well, can you at least give me a hint about what I’m in for?” I asked, noting that the hand he had placed on my thigh was growing considerably damp despite the room being so cold.

  But he just squeezed my leg and smiled. “Patience,” he said.

  I knew I had to stop grilling him. I mean, obviously he wanted to surprise me. So I should just do my part, sit back, and stop questioning. I mean how many guys would go to this much trouble, just to show how spontaneous and fun they could be? I looked at Max and smiled. Man, I was lucky.

  Once the tables were full, the lights dimmed even lower, and the loud, hard-hitting strains of a song I’d never heard before began to fill the room. I watched as Max tossed back the rest of his drink and gripped my thigh even harder. And after leaning in to kiss him, I turned toward the stage to see an older man and a much younger woman who, except for a few strips of leather tied awkwardly around their torsos, were completely naked.

  I just sat there, mouth gaping and eyes wide, as I watched them climb on top of a black leather ottoman, and then on top of each other.

  Keep an open mind, I scolded, eyes glued to the stage in shock. This is probably some kind of performance art.

  But after they finished, and the music changed to something softer and slower, a naked blonde with nothing more than a single white candle and a small book of matches took center stage. And then suddenly, I knew.

  Maxwell Dunne had brought me to a sex circus.

  “Max,” I whispered, trying to get his attention as he drooled over the woman and her multitasking candle. “Max!” I poked him hard in the ribs. “Are you kidding me?”

  “What?” He shook his head, then glanced at me briefly before turning back toward the stage, unwilling to miss a single moment.

  “I can’t believe you brought me here,” I hissed, folding my arms across my chest, watching him watch her while completely ignoring me.

  He was gripping my leg so tight it was beginning to hurt, so I peeled his fingers off, grabbed my purse, got up from my seat, and said, “I’m outta here.” I stood there, hands on hips, waiting for a response. “I said I’m leaving!” And this time it came out much louder, judging by the dirty looks and the “Shhh!” I got from everyone but Max, who was focused on the stage.

  Shaking with anger, I beelined for the curtain, no longer caring if he followed or not.

  “Mademoiselle? Is everything okay?” asked the slimy host in the cheap, shiny suit.

  But I just brushed right past him and stormed out the door.

  . . .

  The second I hit the street I calmed down just enough to realize that it was definitely not in my best interest to be wandering around this part of town all alone in a tiny, snug designer dress. “Oh, great,” I mumbled, grasping my purse tightly while making my way to the corner, my eyes searching for potential muggers as well as a vacant taxi.

  And I’d just made it to the end of the alley when I felt someone run up behind me. “Wait!” Maxwell shouted. But it was too late. I’d already nailed him with my purse. Though to be honest, I probably would’ve done it anyway.

  “Hailey, stop,” he said, catching his breath and rubbing his shoulder.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” I yelled, blinking back tears and glaring at him under the yellow glow of the streetlights.

  “I just thought I’d show you another side of Paris.” He shrugged.

  I stood before him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, debating whether I should take another swing. “Showing me Pigalle is one thing. But bringing me to a sex show is totally inappropriate,” I said, turning angrily and heading toward the boulevard.

  “Hailey, I’m sorry. I just wanted to show you that I wasn’t all fancy dinners and five-star hotels. That I could be spontaneous and wild too.”

  I stopped and stared at him, shaking my head in frustration. “Who’re you kidding? You’re a regular! You knew just where to find it, and the host knew you by name! You even have a regular table,” I said, watching him cringe and look away in embarrassment.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “What now? I’m leaving. That’s what happens now!”

  “Hailey, please wait.” He stood there looking tired and defeated. “Okay, so I’ve been here before. At least I’m not trying to hide it. Besides, you seem so open-minded, I guess I thought you’d enjoy it too.” He shrugged.

  I watched him standing there, his shoulders slumped in shame, and I had to admit, part of me felt bad for him. I mean, maybe Max had brought me here because he knew I wasn’t satisfied. Or maybe he was hoping for a little understanding. Or maybe he was just a creepy pervert. But one thing was clear—he’d used really bad judgment. And because of that I no longer had a good
excuse to stay.

  Though I did have one to leave.

  “Max, I think I should go,” I said, squeezing his hand softly and letting it drop at his side.

  “Go where?” he asked, his eyes searching my face.

  “Back to the Ritz. And then to the airport,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be too upset.

  He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “At least let’s get a cab.’

  We made our way down the boulevard, carefully guarding against any accidental physical contact. And when he opened the cab door, I slid all the way across the seat, making sure there was plenty of room for him. But then he reached for his wallet, handed the driver a fistful of euros, and walked away without once looking back.

  “Wait,” I said as the driver started to pull away. “Wait just a moment.” And I leaned my head out the window, watching as Max made his way down the alley, eventually disappearing through the small, unmarked door.

  “Can you even believe it?” I asked, shaking my head. “I mean, don’t you think that was a little early in the game to trot out the porn addiction?” I lifted my mug and took a nice long gulp of Dutch beer.

  But Clay just shrugged. “Most of the couples I know met up because of their porn addictions,” he said, taking a long pull on his cigarette—a habit he’d given up years ago, but occasionally regressed to whenever we found ourselves drinking in some European bar.

  “Yeah, well, I’m no prude, but—”

  “Hailey, please. Every prude I know starts their sentences like that.”

  I rolled my eyes and continued. “Listen, if we’d been dating for a little longer, and we decided to check out that kind of show just to be a little decadent, that would be fine. Maybe even fun. But since we hadn’t known each other very long, not to mention that the sex we were having was pretty deficient, well that just made it even worse.”

  “But maybe that’s why he took you there,” Clay said, blowing a perfect smoke ring, then turning to face me. “You know, to like get a mood on. Since once you get back to the suite, he can’t produce the goods.”

  I took another sip of my beer and shrugged.

  “Or maybe he knew you weren’t having a good time in bed, so he thought he’d show you some people who were.”

  “But do you think I’d be sitting here now, if it weren’t for the other problem?” I asked.

  Clay squinted at me and took another drag. “Quit beating yourself up,” he said, curls of smoke escaping from his mouth with each word. “I think the reason this guy was so perfect in the beginning was because he had to be. And once the jig was up, well then he was free to be his genuine, low-life sell.”

  I gazed at my empty beer mug, wondering if he was right.

  “I’ll buy you a beer for a cigarette.”

  I looked up to see this really pretty blonde smiling at us. And even though she spoke perfect English, the accent was pure Holland.

  “You’re on,” Clay said, slipping a cigarette out of his pack as she motioned for the bartender.

  “Two beers,” she said. And then, slipping the cigarette between her lips, she noticed me and my empty mug. “Make it three.” She smiled.

  Several beers later, Clay and I, our new best friend whose name I’d forgotten even though she was still buying the beers, and several of her friends were trying to decide whether to head out to a club or just stay put where we already had a table and the drinks were promptly refilled.

  “Let’s go to a club,” I said, feeling loose and happy and anxious to make the most of my night out in Amsterdam.

  And before I knew it, I was sitting on the hump, in the back of a taxi, between two people whose names I didn’t know. And after that I can’t remember.

  “Wa—” I crawled out of bed clutching the sides of my head, with my tongue feeling thick and swollen and useless, as though somehow during the night it’d grown too large for my mouth. “Water,” I mumbled, heading for the bathroom, where I turned on the faucet and angled my lips under the spray, drinking until I couldn’t hold any more. Then, wiping my dripping face on the hem of my oversized T-shirt, I headed for my bag, desperately searching for something to stop the pounding in my head.

  “If you’re looking for aspirin, I have some right here,” Clay said, holding up a tiny travel-sized bottle and shaking it so that the pills rattled against each other. “And there’s plenty of coffee left to wash it down with.” He motioned toward a silver room-service tray hosting an entire breakfast setup.

  “How long have you been up?” I asked, downing the aspirin and taking a bite of cheese Danish. “I mean, what time is it?” I squinted at him.

  “It’s afternoon,” he shrugged. “Probably around one.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “We didn’t get back until after four,” he said, lounging on the couch with his bare feet propped on the coffee table, looking fresh and handsome as ever.

  “Well, did we at least have fun?” I asked, unable to recall anything more than a brief flashback.

  “You had a great time.” He smiled.

  I set down my coffee and looked at him. “Oh no. What does that mean?” I asked, already fearing the answer.

  “Let’s just say Tara Reid’s got nothing on you.” He laughed.

  Tara Reid? What could we possibly have in common?

  “Yup, ole Jan and you were really whoopin’ it up. And when you climbed up on that table, I thought I would die.”

  Table? What table? I looked at Clay, panicked.

  “You brought the house down. I think you even made some tip money. Check your wallet for crumpled-up euros,” he suggested, getting up and heading for the bathroom.

  “But I kept all my clothes on, right?” I called after him, frantically reaching for my purse, desperate to get to the bottom of this. I mean, if I really had earned tip money, then not only did I want to know why, but also how much.

  Spilling the contents across the duvet, I took inventory of the debris—the brand-new pack of travel tissues, Altoids the curiously strong breath mints, the M-A-C lip gloss that had somehow escaped the Canal Street Prada makeup bag I housed it in, the three black “ouchless” ponytail holders I kept in all my bags and coat pockets in case of unanticipated humidity—but nothing seemed out of place. And then underneath the Burberry wallet I’d bought myself for Christmas last year was a white business card with an Amsterdam address, and the words “Call me” written in small, neat script above the name Jan van Dijk. In the corner was a tiny hand-drawn heart.

  Jan van Dijk. Jan van Dijk. Who the hell is Jan van Dijk? I wondered, trying to match the name to a face. But I’d met so many people last night, I couldn’t keep track of it then, much less now. But wait—hadn’t Clay said something about me and “ole Jan” really whooping it up? Table dancing even? I closed my eyes, determined to remember. There was that girl at the bar with the cigarette who was buying the beer and smiling at me . . . and then later. . . was it her I sat next to in the cab? Was she Jan van Dijk? And if so, why had she given me her card? Why did she write “call me”? And what was up with that little hand-scrawled heart?

  I stared at the bathroom door just as Clay opened it. “Did I hook up with a girl?”

  He stopped in his tracks and looked at me. “Would that be so bad?” He smiled.

  “Just tell me,” I said, all keyed up, unwilling to mess around. “Just tell me; I can take it. I made out with a girl, didn’t I? I made out with Jan van Dijk!” I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. So there it was, my own personal rock bottom. Not that I had anything against girls kissing girls. But it definitely wasn’t part of my normal routine.

  I mean, what the hell was I thinking? First I’d ditched Max for taking me to a sex show, only to end up in Amsterdam, where I got drunk and made out with a girl. Clearly I needed some kind of intervention. Clearly I needed to go home.

  “Hailey,” Clay said, sitting next to me.

  “Just tell me,” I begged, eyes still closed. “How bad was it? Did everyone se
e?”

  “Well, not everyone.”

  I opened my eyes to see him clutching his stomach, doubled over in laughter. Well at least one of us was having fun.

  “You know what? Just forget it. I don’t want to discuss it anymore,” I said, starting to stand.

  “Haiiey,” he gasped, reaching for my arm, unable to stop laughing. “Jan is a guy.”

  “What?” I sank back down onto the bed, narrowing my eyes at him. “How can Jan be a guy? I thought you said Jan was a girl?”

  “Jan is a girl, but her real name is Janice. That’s who you were dancing with. But you were just dancing, nothing more. And you weren’t on a table; you were on a dance floor.” He smiled. “Whereas, Jan”—he pronounced it yawn—”is a guy. He’s in advertising, lives in Amsterdam, and was quite taken with you.”

  “Did we kiss?” I asked as the memory of this Jan dude began to resurface—blond hair, blue eyes, slim build, milky skin, nice smile . . .

  “Nope, no contact. I swear,” he said, lifting his right hand. “Though he does want to take you to dinner.”

  I just sat there, staring at Clay. “You better be telling the truth,” I warned.

  “I’m serious. Nothing happened. But Jan is a hottie. You should definitely call him.”

  I shook my head and headed for my suitcase. “Forget it,” I said, unzipping my bag and looking for something clean to change into. “It’s time to fly home.”

  By the time I got back in town, there was a mountain of mail to sort through. Most of it was addressed to Kat, but some of it was for me—like the one addressed to Current Single Resident, my Atlas AirMiles Visa card statement whose heft and bulk was probably a bad sign, and a plain, white self-addressed stamped envelope that was either from my gynecologist reminding me of my yearly appointment, or one of the six publishers I’d sent my manuscript to. And like a jury coming back from a speedy deliberation, I knew that a quick reply from a publisher was not a good thing for me.

  I tossed the mail aside, dropped my bag in the hall, slipped into my favorite, scruffy robe, poured myself a glass of water, and then settled in at the kitchen table with Kat’s mother-of-pearl letter opener in one hand and the mysterious envelope in the other.