Air Kisses Read online

  I scrambled for my recorder and pen, trying to set it all up, and she didn’t say a word. Silence. This made me overcompensate, and to disguise my fluster I started asking her standard starter questions.

  ‘Are you enjoying your newfound rise to fame?’

  ‘Yeaaah, it’s been gooood,’ she said, smiling and nodding.

  She tucked her hair behind her left ear.

  ‘You must be exhausted with all of your commitments at the moment?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s been really goooood,’ she said, smiling and nodding. Whoa, it was lucky I knew shorthand.

  She now dramatically flicked her hair to the other side of her head with her left arm.

  ‘So, I work for Gloss, as Jane might have told you, and I guess my readers will be most interested in what you—’

  ‘Can I get another Diet Coke?’ She looked to the PR. She had an attitude that was disproportionate to her level of fame. She looked back at me and gave me a closed-lip smile. She flicked her hair again. I was momentarily stunned. The PR scarpered off to get the drink.

  ‘…Um, I guess, I guess they’d want to know which are your favourite Bare products? Let’s go with maybe five?’

  ‘I like the mascara.’

  I waited.

  She didn’t say anything. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Again. I was almost able to set a clock to her ridiculous hair-fiddling.

  ‘Okaaay, great! Which one do you like best?’

  ‘Um…the black one? It’s real good for night-time and stuff. Makes lashes so hot. Love it.’ Her phone went off on the table. She leant forward and checked the screen, not bothering to silence its shrill siren.

  ‘Lashification?’

  ‘Yeah, that one. Hot.’

  I was feeding her the names of products she was being paid fistfuls of cash to promote. That wasn’t right. I stared at her.

  I cleared my throat and tried again.

  ‘Okay, and what about foundation? Are you a matte girl or a sheer girl?’

  ‘Um, I really like the liquid foundation.’

  There were seven liquid foundations.

  ‘Right. The liquid one…’

  I was almost too scared to ask about lips. ‘And lip gloss? Which one do you wear?’

  She screwed her mouth to one side. She flicked her hair behind her shoulders. She glanced at the PR, who handed her a glass of brown liquid bobbing with ice cubes. Her eyes searched the room, then suddenly lit up. ‘Shine and Last! It’s awesome. I, like, totally wear it every day.’

  One out of three wasn’t bad. Except if you were a Bare employee paying her many dollars to flog your products. Or a journalist who had to make a story out of her quotes.

  After another few awkward minutes, I could get nothing more out of her. Asking for her make-up tips and secrets baffled her; simple concepts like ‘beauty blunders’ mystified her; and her phone kept ringing just as I went to ask my questions.

  ‘Okay then! I think that should do it,’ I said, after her phone rang for the fourth time and she took the call: ‘Babe, I won’t be home for hours, can’t you just feed Princess now before you go?’

  The PR started gushing about how excited they were about their double-page ads in Gloss, subtly reminding me to be kind in both my copy and my post-interview anecdotes.

  As I thanked Cassie, she was rifling through her bag for something and appeared not to hear me. It wasn’t till I started walking to the door that she realised I was going and yelled out, ‘Thank you so much!’

  ‘My pleasure,’ I said, turning to offer her a weak smile. She looked up at me with a smile that could melt a thousand icy poles, and said, ‘It was reeally great to meet you, Alannah.’

  I smiled (twelve icy poles, max). ‘You too, Carrie. Bye for now.’ Slam.

  I kept smiling all the way back to the office, thinking about what a twit she was and how unfair it was that twits were paid so much even while being so twitty.

  When I got back to my desk it suddenly occurred to me that I was off to a beachy climate in days. I needed to book in a spray tan for starters, and get a wax, and then I would need sunscreen and tinted moisturiser and some monoi oil and after-sun stuff and some super-hydrating moisturiser for the plane… But was it wrong to call it in from cosmetic companies when it was for personal use, not a story for Gloss? I needed a second opinion. I picked up the phone.

  ‘Yasmin?’

  ‘Yes Miss Hawaii Tropic?’

  ‘Do you ever, you know, call in something that you really like, but, like, not shoot it in the magazine, and just, you know, start using it?’

  ‘Are you for real? Jesus, I call in stuff for myself all the time. You might decide you love it so much you want to write reams about it one day.’

  ‘And the companies don’t get pissed?’

  ‘They wouldn’t even know!’

  ‘Oh, cool. That’s a good way of looking at it.’

  ‘It’s not a way of looking at it, sunshine, it’s legit. Now you go call in that Re-Nutriv.’

  I got off the phone giggling. I felt much better about it.

  I needed the stuff by Thursday because I was flying out Friday morning. And I was stupidly busy until then. The functions were laid on thick, and if I wanted time off, I had to meet my deadlines before I went. Late nights were a gross understatement. Decent amounts of sleep were a fantasy.

  And, until a few days ago, so was seeing Dan again. I was still fighting a ferocious little internal battle about my decision to frolic off to meet a guy who had found it difficult to find time to email me only a week earlier.

  What if we didn’t get on like we had here? What if I got bored of him after a day? Or he got bored of me? Or we fought? Or I wasn’t attracted to him any more?

  Part of me was sulking in a corner, arms folded, hissing that Dan didn’t deserve my company after the way he had been treating me. In the other corner it was all fluorescent banners with the slogans ‘Live in the now!’ and ‘How many times in your life will you do this?!’

  I confirmed resolutely that I was going to Hawaii. I consoled the part of me that was shy of being bitten again with the reassurance that at least I knew what to expect post-holiday. This time there’d be no expectations of mutual long-distance longing. Uh-uh. I was no fool. I knew how to play this game now. I’d enjoy my holiday for what it was, and that was it. Too easy.

  ‘He wait with roses’

  Long flight? Use a hydrating mask (cloth or from a tube) the day you leave, apply rosehip oil and hydrating face cream during the flight, and use a hydrating mask when you arrive. Also, ask for an aisle seat – you should be drinking so much water you constantly need the bathroom.

  Honolulu airport was slightly underwhelming. Especially at 11 p.m., when you’ve just flown a long way to hang out with a man who’s nowhere to be seen, even though your flight was twenty minutes late.

  I sat down outside near the taxi rank and contemplated what I should do if he didn’t show. I tried calling his mobile, but it rang out. A mild feeling of panic twinkled through me. I suddenly wanted a cigarette very badly. I contemplated asking for one from a weathered old taxi driver who was leaning against his car nearby, but he saw me looking, and shuffled over with his crumpled Kools outstretched. I hoped all Hawaiians could mind-read; it’d make for a very easy holiday.

  ‘You want one, pretty lady?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. Face like yours have anything it desires.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I wouldn’t normally, but… I’m a bit anxious. The guy who’s picking me up…’

  ‘If a man love a woman, he never late. He wait with roses.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, we’re just, he’s… I’m just…’

  ‘You don’t need explain to me. But for happy life, whenever you fall in love with man, let him love you more than you love him. That the key to happy love, and good life.’

  And with that he looked over my shoulder, nodded to a Japanese couple and helped them heave their suitca
ses into his car. He glanced over at me before he got in and nodded with a smile.

  I sat there, inhaling a cigarette, and wondered if I had just met an angel. His words were almost too movie-like prophetic for me to take in, but I couldn’t deny they struck a chord. All of my relationship rules, all that stuff about keeping your emotions in bubble wrap and making men work for you, to prove they’re worthy of receiving even the first password to your heart, now looked to be merely a chintzy effort at explaining what a funny little Hawaiian taxi driver had known all along: that to be happy you needed to let go, and let your man adore you.

  I smiled at the simplicity of it. I wasn’t about to fool myself into thinking I was ready to be so graceful about matters of the heart just yet; I still had some work to do on myself and my somewhat, uh, tainted perception of men. And, as Dan’s foul post-fling behaviour had shown me, I still needed to be on guard, to cocoon myself in my code of conduct so as not to wind up a disillusioned love-fool – forever disappointed, forever getting hurt. My current instinct about having any semblance of a relationship with Dan was roughly as strong as a wet paper bag, but I figured that as long as I knew this, I was allowed to enjoy the roller-coaster ride I’d signed up for by coming here. At least I now had a more emotionally intelligent blueprint to work from when I was ready to give unconditionally again. Whenever that might be.

  Following on from my emotional epiphany, as though in some form of bespoke symphony, a white stretch limousine pulled up and a driver in a suit stepped out. He was carrying a card that said ‘Princess Atkins’. Dan’s nickname for me. I almost choked on the smoke wafting out of my mouth.

  I leapt up. ‘Driver, I think that’s me.’

  ‘Miss Princess Atkins?’

  ‘Um, ahem, yes.’

  He smiled and came over to get my suitcase.

  ‘Apologies for the delay, ma’am. Awful accident on the freeway.’

  ‘Is Dan with you?’

  ‘Mr Daniel is waiting for you at the destination. Please, allow me.’

  And, as he opened the door, I wished the taxi driver were here to see this.

  Around twenty minutes later we pulled into the ‘destination’ – the W hotel, just out of Waikiki. The driver handed me a swipe card and told me he’d send the bag up to my room. I raced straight into the lobby bathroom and touched up a face that needed an entirely fresh start, but wouldn’t be given such a luxury. My heart was racing as I applied concealer to ferocious under-eye bags, cheek crème to flush my cheeks and a thick layer of gloss. That was as fresh as I was getting. I sprayed on some Michael Kors – Dan loved it and I wanted to cement my signature scent in his mind like the little perfume bandit I was.

  As I knocked on a door bearing the number written on my swipe card, I was sure I could actually hear my heart pounding.

  The door opened.

  ‘Mish H, you rook amazhing.’

  Dan opened the door with a rose in his mouth. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My hand went to my chest and my mouth fell open in a very unladylike fashion. He made a show of spitting out the rose, swept me up and gave me a big kiss.

  ‘So good to see you again, you beautiful little thing. How was your flight?’

  ‘It was… I mean this whole thing is… The car, the rose, the room… Are you for real?’

  ‘Being a gigolo, you learn how to work the ladies, if you know what I mean.’ He winked and nodded lecherously. ‘I pull this gear all the time. Last night I used a hot-air balloon and dancing polar bears.’

  ‘You’re mad. But so good…thank you so much. But I should warn you – if you’re going to propose, I only accept pink diamonds. And no less than five carat.’

  ‘But I thought you’d like copper and Swarovski crystals? I had no idea you were so shallow.’

  My nerves melted the moment we started bantering. He was still Dan, and I was still me, and I still loved the way he carried on. Plus, the rose… Was that some bizarre little sign from the universe? I mean, after the taxi driver’s call about roses…

  I couldn’t think that way. I was here to have fun, and be wild, and live la vida loca and all that Ricky Martin jazz. No strings meant no thinking long-term things. I was Sexy Magazine Girl, doing the kind of thing people expected her to be doing – drinking champagne in jacuzzis at 4 a.m. and that sort of caper.

  My phone crowed.

  ‘Turn it off or your husband will use GPS to track you down.’

  I giggled as I checked the message. It was Gabe.

  Are you safe? Have you had sex yet? If not, why not? Did you not wax again? Silly girl. What have I told you about that? Enjoy your hot Hawaiian humpathon, beauty. Gxx

  Bless him.

  ‘Am I allowed to respond?’

  ‘To your husband? No. Your kids? I guess. But only if they have a life-threatening disease.’ He was speaking like he was the psychopath from a James Bond movie, while filling champagne glasses and arranging fruit and cheese on a platter.

  ‘It’s the plague.’

  Deep sigh. ‘I suppose.’

  God, he was excellent. I’d forgotten how fun he was, how much fun we had, and how much fun was possible with him. Of course, he would have to live on the other side of the world.

  The next morning, after a night of extreme drinking, starting with a bottle of Moët in the room, then cocktails, shots and dancing downstairs at the W’s club, including Dan having a dance-off with several well-known NFL players, and winning due to his extremely crowd-pleasing body-popping, I was woken up just before eight to the sound of the Beach Boys singing ‘Let’s go surfing…’ at a level that would be more appropriate at, say, an outdoor concert.

  ‘Rise and shine, sweet Hannah. We’ve got waves to catch.’

  ‘Are you…what? Why? Can’t we do it later? My head…’ I rolled over and covered my head with the pillow. Which Dan promptly thieved.

  ‘Sleep when you’re dead, baby! Right now it’s time to get those dainty hooves of yours onto the pristine sands and two-foot dribblers of Waikiki.’

  ‘Right now?’ My hangover clouded my vision and my desire to be alive. A sequence of mind-blowing thumps pounded throughout every nanometre of my brain. My stomach was churning. I felt as though a fire-truckload of water might just satisfy my parched mouth.

  ‘Oh darling…’ He came and stroked my shoulder and I melted, happy that I had changed his mind.

  Two slaps on the arm and then, ‘Ten minutes to go. Your lesson with a super-awesome surfing legend is at eight-thirty. Come on, princess, time to roll.’ With that, he ripped the sheets off the bed, forcing me to scramble for something, anything.

  ‘All right. I’m coming.’ I irritably pulled things out of my suitcase, looking for my bikini and some shorts. Of course, because I was hung over, all I could find were underpants and a collection of stupid paisley-print sarongs that I knew I wouldn’t wear but had packed because you always pack sarongs when you’re off on a beach holiday.

  ‘You’re adorable when you’re angry. Especially when you take it out on harmless g-strings. Coffee?’ He had already brewed a pot and was sipping some.

  He was impossible to be angry at.

  Seasick

  Prevent crunchy summer hair by applying a leave-in conditioner with UV filters before you head to the beach or pool. Comb your hair back into a low ponytail, and roll with the slick look. Your hair will thank you for it when it doesn’t snap off post-swim.

  ‘Paddle, paddle, PADDLE! Two hands, faster, faster, come on, put your back into it, come on, Han, go, GO, up, up, get up, jump, yes, YES, bend, bend…no…face the beach, the beach, not me, the bea—’

  ‘I AM…ah, ahh, ahhhhh!’

  I fell off the back of a canoe masquerading as a surfboard. Again. No matter how good a teacher Dan was, and how small and easy the waves at Waikiki were, I just kept falling off. And because I was so hung over, getting back on the board and paddling back to where he was had become a colossal task that I had to undertake every few minutes. My head thumped and my gut
s were churning slowly.

  ‘Nice arse.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Seriously – I love the way your bikini rides up your bum every time you jump up on the board. I’d do you for a dollar, put it that way.’

  ‘Daniel. I’m shocked. I cost at least double that, thank you.’

  He brought our boards together, forming a bridge with his arms. The sun was shining in his eyes, and his hair was falling over his face in a way that takes stylists hours to achieve.

  ‘Did you know this area was once full of dolphins? Back before this place was colonised by the…’

  He was in his element. The surf was his second home, and he loved it with a passion that, ridiculously, made me a little jealous. He tried to teach me about the swell, the technique, the correct way to paddle; no surfing stone was left unturned. I was less than vaguely interested but nodded and smiled continuously until – whoa. I didn’t feel so good. I felt really, really not good, in fact.

  ‘Uh, Dan… I think I might be…’

  Just as my wave of nausea manifested into vomit, a wave of water came and knocked my board up, back and into me. This wasn’t very helpful, as I was doing my best to be sick on the opposite side to where Dan was, only now there were no sides, just water and boards and vomit. All in one spectacularly mortifying moment, I found myself treading water, trying to hold on to my board, struggling not to take in any water as my body urgently expelled the remnants of the last night’s 264 alcoholic beverages.

  It felt like I might die at any second: there were far too many input and output issues, not to mention the whole flotation thing. It shocked me to realise that in the moments when I was gulping air and not actually being sick I was still trying to look ladylike in front of Dan, holding my hair back and aiming my sick into an area I hoped he wasn’t.

  And then another wave came, bigger than the last one. I got smashed, tumbling around under the whitewash, my leg rope tugging my board and my leg with it.

  Suddenly I felt arms around me, holding me up straight, and a hand pulling my hair back and telling me it was okay.