Air Kisses Page 13

  ‘Do you want to skip the movie and go get a cocktail up the road?’

  I smiled in shock; it was as though he’d read my mind. Shit balls.

  What else had he seen while he was poking around in there? I got all nervous about sex again. But then, if we were going for cocktails, my get-drunk plan would work beautifully.

  ‘Are you sure? I know how much you want to see the movie…’

  ‘Bah, let’s go get high on sugared-up rum and lime. I’ll get the bill.’

  ‘Thank you, Dan. That’d be nice.’ I grinned like a fool. He smiled back and his dimples pricked his cheeks in the way that had made me think of his face all day during work.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’ I grabbed my bag from the back of my chair and headed to the bathroom, trying to walk in a sexy way. I touched up my concealer and gloss and added some more crème blush to disguise the fact I’d been up since 6.30 a.m. My phone beeped as I was applying it. I checked the message. It was from Dan.

  I want to take your dress off, Minnie Mouse

  Sexpectation nothin’. I was very glad I’d had that wax.

  Perfect-breasted imps

  Enhance those tatas by applying a line of shimmer or illuminator to your cleavage, following your bra-line along each breast. This will create the illusion that you have a fuller cup than you actually do. Or, that you have a great surgeon.

  Fiona took a deep breath. She was sitting in the back seat of a taxi with Yasmin, telling A Story. I was sitting in the front and so had to keep stretching my neck back to listen.

  Yasmin had become quite close to Fiona lately, and Fiona now accompanied us to functions most of the time. I’d got over being scared of her, but I was still shy around her, because, well, she was still kind of indifferent to my existence.

  But Fiona was a terrific, dominating storyteller. My role was simply to listen and offer terrifically encouraging eyebrow movements. She relayed stories with wild gesticulation and deliberate pauses and dramatic hair flicks. She wore her singledom like some form of glorious evening gown, and was always dating lots of inappropriate men. And had such a number of boy tales she had to give all her men nicknames so we could keep track of them. These were attributed according to appearance (Bad-Hair Boy), stand-out traits/incidents (Tongue Guy/Married Man) or job (Vet).

  ‘So, like, Tight Shirt and I are sitting on the couch, and I’m completely sober, because I’m on antibiotics for my ear infection, and all of a sudden he starts kissing me.’

  ‘Is Tight Shirt “Gappy Teeth”?’ Yasmin asked, texting furiously as usual, but still listening in.

  ‘No, Gappy Teeth had left the party – remember, he had tried to kiss me goodbye while he was holding Midriff Girl’s hand? Tight Shirt is the unemployed guy with the Diet Coke body and the stubble.’

  ‘That’s right, sorry. Keep going.’

  ‘So, we’re kissing and he’s gorgeous, right, but all these thoughts race through my mind: “I haven’t waxed; I haven’t fake-tanned; what if someone walks in—”’

  ‘Ohmigod. I smell threesome,’ Yasmin said.

  For beauty girls, taxis were the arena for the most salacious talk, as though we were in some form of secrecy bubble and the person driving were deaf or invisible.

  I kept nodding encouragingly at Fiona as she described her dramatic brush with a sexual sandwich, but my mind wandered. Today’s function was bound to thieve at least two hours, and when I was going to finish writing my very-due beauty feature – ‘The Lazy Girl’s Guide to Glowing Skin’ – I had no idea. With precious few days till Dan left, I was not at all interested in staying back at work.

  Plus, this evening we were going to a new Spanish tapas place that was supposed to be brilliant. Suddenly I was beside myself with excitement. And not about the chorizo.

  My buzz lasted around twelve seconds.

  ‘So, Hannah, I saw your ex yesterday,’ said Fiona casually, as if she were commenting on the state of the traffic. Seems I was to be included in the taxi talk today, after all.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ I said, feigning a nonchalance that I thought was convincing.

  ‘He was with one of the Taylor sisters. Not sure which, all three are so tall and gorgeous and insipid,’ Fi continued, throwing out more worms.

  I was refusing to bite, but Yasmin was ready for a nibble: ‘Aren’t they those lingerie-model sisters?’

  ‘Don’t know if they all are; I think the youngest one is just bikinis actually. We shot her last month for our denim issue. She ordered a platter of raw vegetables then proceeded to drink four coffees and smoke a deck of Marlboro lights instead,’ Fiona said with relish. We all loved to hear about what the models ate, or didn’t, on a shoot.

  ‘Well, that’s flattering to you, isn’t it, Han? I mean, think of Jennifer post-Brad: if you were gonna get dumped for anyone, you’d want it to be Angelina, right? Or a bikini model, in this case.’ Yasmin was trying to salvage the situation. Poorly.

  I was aware both girls were waiting for my reaction. But I didn’t quite know what to do.

  ‘Anyway, Fi, what makes you think they’re dating? Maybe they’re just doing a TV show together. Or plotting a new route for NASA to get to Mars.’ Yasmin was now trying to diffuse things with a paltry attempt at humour.

  ‘I didn’t say they’re dating, I just said I saw them together.’

  Yasmin exhaled dramatically. ‘Actually, and Han, baby, you know I’m on your side, we all are… But, Phoebe, my fashion editor, said word is they are dating. We shot the girl last week and apparently she spent the whole time she was getting her make-up done talking about Jesse.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘I’m sorry, but Phoebe’s so full of shit.’ Was Fiona now trying to play Switzerland? These girls were switching from good cop to bad with such speed that I was getting confused about who to hate more.

  ‘Yeah, okay, usually she is, but why would she make this up?’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe you should stop now anyway. I’m sure Hannah doesn’t want to hear any more…’ Fiona had noticed the conversation had become a little too heavy, and, despite her having triggered it, was now trying to backpedal.

  And all the while, I couldn’t say a thing.

  ‘No, shut up, Fi. I know Hannah better than you, and she knows I’m not doing this to hurt her, I’m doing it to help her. Han, I’m only telling you this so that you don’t hear it from someone else. And so you can feel safe knowing he is still clearly going through his compulsory sleep-around-with-every-dumb-pretty-slut-available phase, which he’ll inevitably get over.’

  That was enough for me. ‘Driver, can you pull over please?’

  I needed to get out. I needed to be away from these creatures, these bitches who pretended they were doing the right thing by me, when really my life was just another arrow in their gossip bow.

  ‘Yasmin!’ Fi was desperately trying to hold on to her slipping halo.

  ‘Hannah, honey, stay in the car. It’s finished now.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’d just rather walk.’

  ‘Excuse me, holy fuckin’ one, but it was you who brought this whole thing up,’ exploded Yasmin. ‘Hannah. I’m not trying to fuck with you. You know that. I only say this because I’m trying to protect you. It’s what decent friends do.’

  We pulled up to a red light. I grabbed my bag and opened the door.

  ‘Yeah, well, strange version of friendship you’ve got,’ I said, and slammed the door.

  In a matter of minutes I had changed from excitable honeymooner to an angry, angry person. I had not needed that information. It surprised me how upset I was, because I was so consumed with Dan, but I was very grumpy at the news Jesse was with yet another perfect-breasted imp.

  But I’d be fine. I was fine, fine, fine, fucking fine. Stomp, stomp, stomp, search for invite to check address, stomp, stomp, go in door, wipe tears, take deep breath, smile, see PR, kiss on the cheek, overcompensate with cheerfulness and sound like on speed, relax, remember comments in cab, seethe, seethe,
sip, smile, shudder, feel the lump in throat rising, excuse self, walk to toilet, slam door, sit, sigh, sniff, sob, shake head at self, sniff, sigh, slump.

  I needed to pull myself together. I couldn’t just walk out and run, this was work. I looked up to the roof to stop the tears dribbling down. It was a nice one, all Art Deco style. I took some more deep breaths and tried to think happy thoughts. Like how Dan had lecherously tongue-kissed me this morning at breakfast in front of a whole café full of people. And how I would be seeing him in mere hours’ time. But it wasn’t like I could tell him about all of this; it was about my ex, for God’s sake, and Dan wouldn’t care anyway, he’d probably never had a bad break-up in his life. Ah, Dan, Dan, the miracle man…

  Pfft, I suddenly thought. Who cared what Jesse was doing? I had Dan, and he meant far more to me than any vapid bikini model could ever mean to that germ.

  I went over to the basin and started to reapply my make-up, which was all smudged and blotchy. By the time I’d finished putting eye drops into my red, puffy eyes I was feeling a lot better. I had overreacted a little, I guess.

  I triumphantly walked back into the restaurant, sporting a smile that could bluff even Iz. As I turned the corner, past an immaculately placed array of candles, I was ambushed by a flurry of hair and eyes.

  ‘Oh, you’re here!’ Fi exhaled in relief.

  ‘Guys, I’m fine; I am truly fine. I’m good. Don’t look at me like that; I am okay, really.’

  ‘H, I’m – we’re – so sorry we were such arseholes,’ Yasmin said, in a tone I’d never heard from her.

  ‘Okay, well, I just think maybe – maybe – I don’t need to know that he’s dating other girls.’

  ‘Totally understand. No more.’ Fi crossed her heart with her finger.

  ‘Stop staring at me – you’re making me uncomfortable. I’m fine!’

  Truth was I was nowhere near fine, but I was going to fake it till I felt it. I was getting good at that.

  Don’t you go getting all serious

  On a date and worried you’ve got the breath of an ox? The best way to check is by discreetly licking your wrist, allowing it to dry, and then sniffing it. If you smell nothing, or a faint ‘breath’ smell, you’re fine. But if it’s tangy, or spicy, or plain nasty, you need to stop talking and start walking. Towards some mints or gum, that is.

  ‘Can you believe she was behind the whole thing? You brunette bitches sure do pull some nasty-ass tricks out of your devil’s weave.’

  Dan was whispering into my left ear as we watched the plotline of Black Dahlia unfurl at an outdoor cinema. We were lying side by side under a clear, twinkling night sky, our glasses of champagne precariously lodged between dip containers at our feet, and our legs and arms wrapped around each other, the way lovers entwine even though they’re fiercely uncomfortable.

  ‘Don’t hate us because we’re pretty and clever and murderous,’ I whispered back.

  ‘Oh, I don’t hate you for it, sugar,’ he said, in a sleazy mobster voice, and started kissing my neck in a way that was appreciated by me, but probably not by the hundred or so people lying on the grass around us.

  ‘Stop it…DAN! Stop it! You’re being inappropriate… Dan, I said…I said…’ But his kisses made me melt. I took a deep breath in an attempt to keep control of where my mind and body were heading. He was always throwing curveballs, catching me off guard with a cheeky bum grab there, or a full-out neck lick here.

  ‘Let’s go, baby,’ he said in his new favourite accent. ‘Youw house, my house, the goddamn moon for all I care.’

  ‘We can’t just walk out mid-film; we’re lying on the grass…in front of lots of people who probably don’t want us moving about and cleaning up plates and rugs and—’

  ‘So we’ll leave it. I don’t want any of this stuff – do you? It’s all going in the bin anyway. Who cares about an old rug? Come on, sweet’art, waddya say? Let’s you and me live a little, huh?’

  ‘We can’t—’

  ‘Can’t is the town next to Cannes and nothin’ more. Stop your fussin’ and let’s go already.’

  I couldn’t help laughing at his accent, and, taking that as a yes, he jumped up, grabbed my hand and darted to the left of the amphitheatre. I was stumbling behind him, whisper-screaming, ‘We can’t just do this, Dan! That’s littering! And I, I left my bottle-opener!’

  We reached the gate and kept running, him tugging my hand, me laughing and trying to catch my breath.

  ‘You’re insane!’ I said, once we were far enough away.

  He leant against a street pole and pulled me in for a kiss. After we’d finished, he said, ‘That makes you a sucker, then, doesn’t it? Falling for the mentally unfit?’

  I went to slap him but he ducked and belted off for his car, whooping and hollering like a schoolboy. Every now and then he’d leap onto a fence or wall and look back at me with a freakish Jim Carrey-like expression on his face. I had to stop and bend over I was laughing so much. I seriously couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun with a guy.

  When I finally reached the car, where he was propped against it smoking a fake cigar, looking me up and down like I were a hooker for sale, I crossed my arms and smiled.

  ‘You’re quite the piece of work, aren’t you, Daniel?’

  ‘That I am, Miss Atkins, that I am. And for the low, low price of a dollar ninety-free I can be all yours…’

  My smile faded as I realised that, even if I wanted him to be, he wouldn’t be mine, because he was leaving in a few days.

  ‘Miss Atkins, what’s wrang? I’ve seen happier faces on death row.’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, I’m fine.’ I offered a weak smile and walked over to the passenger door.

  He came over, swooped me up and sat me on the bonnet, so that I was looking directly into his eyes. I wondered if I had garlic breath from the hummus.

  ‘Don’t you go getting all serious on me now, Han. You know the rule: serious people have to eat dirt.’

  ‘I’m not. Promise.’ I kissed him to prove it. But, truth be told, I was. Of course I was. How could this man, the first man I’d actually felt something for since Jesse, be leaving! It was unfair and I hated it. I’d been on Iz’s back about Project Mansion in the vain hope we could move to LA, or at least somewhere near there to be closer to Dan, but as her business and her relationship with Kyle were both going along so swimmingly she wasn’t so keen any more. Dammit.

  ‘What did we say about this?’ he said, brows raised.

  ‘That this was only an’ – he chorused in – ‘entrée; we’ve still got main and dessert to go.’ This was how we were getting around the ugly idea of him going back to LA. We were treating these two weeks as merely the start of a great meal.

  Whether he was stringing me along with this line, I couldn’t be sure. It frustrated me that he never took off his jester’s hat. More worrying still was that I was looking at a relationship that was utterly Geographically Impossible. And I knew that a high GI relationship never, ever worked.

  My feelings were too intense for a ‘fling’. This wasn’t my rebound; poor, sweet Trucker held that foul honour. I cursed myself for breaking all my rules at the start of this thing. This was what Iz didn’t understand: my rules existed for precisely this reason! You played hardball at first so you could figure out if they were worth your affections, so you didn’t become their emotional puppet, they couldn’t pull the heartstrings when they felt like it, and, most fricken importantly, you didn’t – get – hurt!

  Which was bound to happen. Because, if I was honest with myself – painfully, brutally honest – I was pretty sure I was falling for Dan. Only he was still perfectly balanced, and holding all the cards.

  I signed up for sitting at a desk and trying on lip gloss

  Shed a kilo from your shoulder by minimising your handbag make-up. All you really need is a foundation stick that doubles as a concealer, blush, lip gloss or lipstick, black kohl and bobby pins. And a mirror. Guesswork is never, ever a good
idea. Ever.

  Today was going to be vile, I could smell it in the air.

  I screamed into the Beckert foyer ten minutes late for the Monday morning production meeting. I was late because Dan was leaving this morning, and so he’d stayed over, and we hadn’t got to sleep till late, and then I’d pressed snooze a record six times. I was awful when I was late. I got cranky, and slammed things, and swore about everything, because when I was all rushed and really needed everything to work for me (clothes, cabs, cash) nothing did.

  I was feeling very gloomy about Dan leaving. I tried not to think of the possibility that he would now be my benchmark for guys. Surely there were no boys as sharp and sexy as he in this city. I resolved that, as per my rules, I wouldn’t contact him first; he could contact me, and I would take my cue from that. I was damned if I would be the lovesick loser left behind.

  My ludicrous walking pace meant my coffee was frothing dangerously as I stepped into the lift. I began my usual intense scrutiny of the floor-numbers lighting up. At the seventh floor, I looked down to see that my coffee had started dribbling like a teething toddler onto my muted-mint frock. Then, in some sick choreography, my handbag handle slid…clicked…then snapped. There was a thud, and then there were lip glosses and coins and eyeshadow brushes and crusty cardboard nail files and empty chewing-gum packets and tampons, of course tampons, everywhere.

  I scurried awkwardly to collect the hairy bobby pins and a half-eaten muesli bar that were wedged between the Italian loafers of two Important Men. I was jamming everything back into my bag with one hand, while holding my coffee with another. No one offered to hold it, or help.

  When we finally reached the eighteenth floor, staggering while trying to carry everything – including a bag that was now on death row – I lost it and started swearing to myself. It was all too stereotypical cheesy Magazine Job Movie starring someone way too gorgeous and together for it ever to be very believable. If I were in that film, I’d be the mail girl.