Air Kisses Page 3

  ‘I think I just need to be alone. But thank you, my love.’ We hugged and finally I broke away, fresh tears in my eyes.

  ‘Love you, girl. Call me anytime – my phone is on and in my hand for you. Promise. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?’

  As she drove out of my driveway, I cried and cried and cried until it got to the point where I couldn’t help but watch myself cry in my built-in wardrobe’s mirrored door as I lay on my bed, because it was so theatrical.

  And so, alone and miserable and with nothing to do but fall into a restless slumber, I pulled back the covers and went to sleep, fully clothed.

  When I woke up on Sunday, I had to think about why I felt so odd. Within seconds it hit me: Jesse had turned into an alien and I had been relocated to hell, albeit sans the flames and small, malevolent devils running around with pitchforks. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table: no missed calls, and two awkward texts from well-meaning friends about the papers. But nothing from Jesse. He hadn’t contacted me. After all this time, I meant that little to him.

  I figured a funny movie would be a good distraction, and that Iz would be brilliant company. I dialled her number, praying she would answer.

  Bingo. ‘How are you today? Have you heard from him?’

  Tears sprang immediately. ‘No… Iz, he hasn’t even texted.’ My voice cracked on ‘texted’.

  ‘Oh darling… I’m so sorry. Poor sweetie… And my God, what a king of an arsehole! How can he just drop you into this situation and not even check how you are? I tell you what, I’ve half a mind to call him myse—’

  ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction, Iz,’ I sobbed. ‘I’ll be okay. Can you come round? Can we watch some movies? It’s shit weather anyway…’

  ‘Oh, Han… I would love to. But I have that Jewish wedding at three, remember? Mr Goldberg and his homosexual poodles? I’m so sorry – you know I will be there the second I am done, right? And if he calls or texts, call me immediately.’

  ‘Pfft. Unlikely. Probably having a long brunch with Lisa.’ As I said the words, my gut coiled over itself in pain.

  I schlepped down to the shops, wearing the same oversized tracksuit pants and stained hoody I’d had on since noon yesterday. I was one stinky bitch. I did not care.

  When I got home, chocolate, popcorn, trash magazines and ice-cream in one hand, DVDs in the other, I sat down with everything within arm’s reach, committing myself to a Freshly Broken-Up Stereotype fit for any chick-flick montage.

  To laugh I watched Anchorman and Starsky and Hutch. Next, feeling brave, I watched The Break-Up. I sobbed and closed my eyes in agreement (‘It’s like she’s me’) when Jennifer Aniston had her heart broken, cheering internally when Vince Vaughn was miserable without her. Stupid men. When will they learn?

  Hang on.

  What exactly had made him miserable? It was that she was getting on with her life. Showing him that she didn’t care. Didn’t need him. Being busy. Extremely well-dressed. Slim. Tanned. She could date other men, look fabulous even when nude, and didn’t even think about the foolish man who had let her go.

  I sat up with a start. It was a revelation. This was what I needed to do. I made a pact with myself that this had to be a bleach-clean break. Jesse had said, ‘I need space’. Well, he was gonna get it. After all, who was he to dictate when and how our relationship was severed and when it could resume? He’d cheated on me! Fuckface!

  How could Jesse realise how much he missed me if he didn’t miss me? Even with Lisa Slutface to fill the void temporarily, he would have to be a bit tortured that I wasn’t begging for reconciliation. I would need to ensure that I stayed strong and fabulous and untouchable, and as far away from weak and hopeless and pathetic as possible. I was suddenly very glad I hadn’t called or texted him, even though I had come extremely close. Phew.

  It had, of course, killed me that he hadn’t contacted me yet, but I had a plan now, and so even if he did contact me, I wouldn’t respond. It was a magnificent plan. It was empowering. I felt the best I had since seeing that piece in the paper.

  I considered texting Jesse to prove how strong and awesome I was and to kick-start my Totally Brilliant Plan. I would write something devoid of emotion, and totally businesslike, such as:

  Please drop over all of my things as soon as you return home.

  This would prove that I was already shutting off emotionally, and thus held the upper hand. Then I wouldn’t have to play the carefully calculated, just-had-to-pick-up-my-DVDs-while-looking-amazing game. But I decided against it. He might not reply, and then I would be really tormented. Bored of masterminding – how did Bond villains do it as a profession? – I put my phone on silent and shoved it deep inside my underpants drawer. Staring at its dark screen was killing me; it was as though it were quietly laughing at me and, quite frankly, I was tired of its derision. I lit some candles, put on the mournful strains of Billie Holiday, and peeled off my clothes to shower.

  As I massaged conditioner into my hair, my mind went into overdrive.

  Maybe he really did mean he needed space and I was blowing this all out of proportion. I had been known to crowd him sometimes… Maybe he’d get home after a few days with no contact from me, and that would be all he needed. Maybe I was making a terrible mistake by cutting him off! Maybe our relationship would be stronger than ever after this fight! And make-up sex was wonderful, remember?!

  Or maybe, in his mind, it was actually already over. He had been seeing Lisa on the side, and I was foolish to assign any hope to this situation. I was exhausted. Conflicting thoughts whirred and spun wildly through a head that throbbed with confusion, and I resorted to leaning my forehead against the shower wall, releasing fresh tears that mingled with the hot water flowing down my face. Stuff it; I was going to sleep, Iz would understand.

  At roughly 3.56 a.m. I sat up sharply in bed. That was it! Gloss magazine would be my saviour. It would keep me aggressively busy because I would hurl myself into it so much that I wouldn’t even notice I was single and hurt and sad and working like a fool to crush the quiet riot in my head that said I wanted Jesse back, needed Jesse back.

  After hours of tossing and turning, I had brilliantly devised a way to combine my two schools of thought: the hardcore no-contact element would provide the foundation for the getting-my-relationship-back element. Jesse would realise how much he missed me, become near-suicidal and beg to have me back by way of Spanish guitar and midnight serenades at my window. It was genius.

  The first and most crucial part of my plan was that I was going to courier all of his things – DVDs, Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie, thongs, Phoenix and Foo Fighters CDs – to his work. It would be a pleasant surprise for when he got back to his desk, I thought. And quite the message about where I stood on this whole ‘space’ bullshit, too.

  Feeling satisfied with The Plan and my new rules and regulations, I lay back down and went straight to sleep.

  Project Mansion

  Need to disguise an unexpected crying session? A few eye drops, some creamy concealer patted under the eye and a white-based eyeliner on the inner rim of your eye will cover your tracks, while slathering on a bright lip gloss will deviously distract.

  As with each morning since starting at Gloss, I found looking ‘magazine glamorous’ to be a mammoth, intricate task requiring much thought and skill.

  It would come to me in the shower, I decided.

  It didn’t come to me in the shower.

  I realised I would need food to think. But after lying in bed for almost an hour, I now had no time for such luxuries. Think.

  Aha! Black-and-white A-line dress. Perfect: pretty but not too pretty. I yanked it out of my drawer. There was an oil stain on the dress. From that stupid housewarming. That I went to with Jesse… I sighed heavily and tried not to get stuck in ‘that’ headspace again.

  I pulled out my lovely newish blue skirt. There. Easy. But what to wear on top…

  I grabbed a pink top that was a replica of a designer top that a magazine g
irl would probably wear. Good one.

  Shit. It was torn under the arm. How the hell had I done that? I mean, really, you pay $25, you expect quality.

  Okaaay, what about…the…peachy vintage dress! Yes! Cute, safe, perfect. Shit. Damn shit. The slip I needed to wear underneath it was at Iz’s.

  Oooh, hello. I gently pulled out my magnificent pink strappy shoes from my shoe rack. Why on Earth didn’t I wear these any more? Such alluring little beasts. Right, shoes sorted. Now I would work backwards.

  I looked around my wardrobe. What the hell did I used to wear with these? I figured it would have to be something simple; they were the shoe equivalent of a spider on a white bedroom wall.

  I remembered my black wool wrap-dress. God, it was so offensively dull. The shoes were phenomenal, though. I checked the time. I was running so, so late. Dull dress it was going to have to be. I figured I could employ a cunning use of hair, make-up and jewellery to state my sophistication.

  I slapped on my foundation, then stopped. Was lilac eyeshadow appropriate or was it too matchy-matchy with the shoes? The Gloss girls might snigger into their lattes about my awful make-up. I decided to stick to liner, bronzer and a pinky-beige lip gloss. Timeless and polished. Perfect.

  My hair had already hijacked twenty-five minutes post-shower, and while it wasn’t too bad, I went over it with my straightening iron once more. I got some sticky-outy fried bits for my effort. Great. I applied some more smoothing balm. No good. Now my hair was sticky-outy and greasy-looking. I swore a few more times as I brushed it, then gave up. Why was this happening? We had a 9 a.m. production meeting and I did not want to be late. Especially if the girls had seen the piece in the paper – they would be expecting me to look like hell and be late. I was not about to give them the satisfaction.

  At work, I quickly applied some watermelon gloss and brushed on some more bronzer before I was called into the meeting. I was able to use the mirrored wall to the right of my desk, which was convenient. That I had a huge mirrored wall, beckoning me every day, whispering for me to apply more foundation or fix my hair, or just check myself out when I was bored was still a novelty. Karen had given one to the fashion girls as well in an effort to remind us that as we were the public faces of Gloss, since we attended the most functions, we should always be especially aware of how we looked. I was quietly pleased that, while I felt like shit, I had managed to look surprisingly polished. Take five, watermelon gloss and bronzer; you’ve done your work today.

  Obscene mirrored walls were just the start of our violently chic office space. There were wooden beams and polished concrete floors, floating steps up to the advertising department, plasma screens, leopard-print beanbags, Philippe Starck chairs and a long glass bench covered with newspapers, fruit and bottled water that was the common area. It looked exactly how a magazine office should look. In fact, it looked a little too much like it should look, like the designer had referred to a Hollywood movie starring Eva Mendes or Kate Hudson for the template. But I was growing to love it in all of its magaziney perfection.

  A little envelope lit up the face of my phone and my heart lurched. I prayed it would be from Jesse. No such luck. Just a sweet ‘thinking of you’ one from Iz.

  Tears pounced, bored of their artificial hiding place. I sat still. I focused on breathing, slow and steady. I was not going to cry at work. I was keeping it together. Keeping it together. Keeping it together. As long as no one asked if I was okay, I’d be okay. All of a sudden, I was attacked by a mass of black hair and Chanel Chance.

  ‘Haaaannnnah,’ hair and perfume said, with enthusiastic intonation and the kind of flashing, smiling black eyes that belonged in a contact-lens campaign.

  ‘Hi Jacinta,’ I said, smiling weakly.

  She took one look at me and made that sad face that was the last thing a person who was two gulps from crying needed. I inhaled. I knew this was coming today, now I just had to be strong and not cry. There would be no goddamn crying.

  ‘Oh honey…oh Hannah.’ She bent down and wrapped her arms around me. ‘I saw that nasty piece in the paper. Those arseholes will rot in hell, don’t you worry…’

  I was anxious that no one else see me upset, and half-nudged her away so that I could get myself together for the meeting. I was too new to be having relationship-drama tears at work.

  ‘So, did you speak to him about it?’

  ‘Mm-hmmm.’ I looked up to stop the tears coming. ‘It ended rather badly. He kind of dumped me over text.’

  ‘He didn’t! I can’t believe this! Why are you here? Go home! I’ll tell everyone you’re sick.’

  ‘No, no, home was doing my head in. I’ll be fine. I just need to keep busy, you know?’

  ‘Well, all right then. But if you need to go, just go. That filthy excuse for a man. I’m not going to ask if you’re handling it okay, but I will just say that you are totally, totally allowed to be sad, and if you need to chat, I’m here. Let’s go for lunch, in fact. Oh shit, I can’t – I have an advertiser lunch…’

  ‘It’s fine, Jay. I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve had all weekend to cry.’

  I suddenly remembered my plan, and a jolt of strength surged through me. I really would be fine. I’d be better than fine, in fact. I’d be un-fucking-believable, right? Right? I knew I had to believe my own hype or I’d crumble.

  Jay’s eyes were filled with genuine concern. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ I checked the time, anxious to get off the topic. ‘Hey, is this meeting on?’

  ‘Think we’re just waiting on Karen to arrive. But mark my words, he’ll regret this more than anything in his life; they always do.’ She sighed and shook her head in the way that only a woman who has suffered the same fate can.

  I always panicked a little at the idea of a whole-office meeting, but add the fact that everyone would know that my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – had been cheating on me and it became unspeakably scary. Keeping my head down, I took a seat against the back wall and exchanged some platitudes with one of the art girls whose name I couldn’t remember. She was an exotic-looking brunette and was wearing more eyeshadow than was legal at such an hour.

  In the interest of distraction I began stealthily checking out what everyone else was wearing. This was a Big Mistake. The Glossettes looked unbelievable, like they’d fallen off the layout board. There were lots of beautiful dresses and designer jeans and cleverly cinching belts and high-waisted skirts and exquisite new-season shoes. I looked down at my dull black dress and wondered what the Gloss girls thought about their new beauty editor. Total fraud, probably. My dreariness flashed like Vegas lights next to a collective of girls whose butts would fall off if they were any hipper. Plus, everyone’s hair was perfect. Every single one of them. I touched my own and vowed never to put in less than one hundred per cent effort again.

  After a minute or two of loud chatter, everyone quietened. I caught one of the fashion girls watching me and whispering to another fashion girl, then they both looked at me with pity. The gesture was not intended to be seen by me, and when they saw that I’d noticed, the awkwardness was palpable. I badly wanted not to be in this meeting. Jay was right; maybe I should’ve stayed home.

  I refocused on Karen, who was going through the production schedule for everything that was going in the upcoming issue. She was wearing a simple blue shift-dress, excellent ankle boots, and I noticed she had dyed a stripe of her black hair dark purple over the weekend. Because she was beautiful and slight and confident she could get away with any look. Her only jewellery was a simple eternity band (she thought big rings were crass) on her wedding finger, and her make-up consisted of nothing but a slash of alarming red lipstick. On her olive skin it worked beautifully. She was cool, clever and really knew her stuff, having been in magazines (in several countries) for a good fifteen years.

  I liked her. She wasn’t the devil, she didn’t wear Prada, and I knew I would learn a lot from her. I had already discussed my pages for this issue with Karen, but I knew she’d pu
t me through my paces in front of everyone.

  ‘Hannah – wow, look at those shoes – just run through your pages quickly for subs and art, please.’

  ‘Um, okay, so first we have a feature called “Never get a spot again”, which is three pages—’

  ‘And the art for that one?’

  ‘I was thinking a few backstage shots of models with really clear skin?’

  ‘Sounds good. What’s this lipstick shoot?’

  ‘Um, that’s one we’ve bought from a photographer in New York, and it’s all about red lipstick, and there are three girls of different colour wearing the right lipstick for their skin tone.’

  ‘Good. And the hair story?’

  ‘Um, that’s a cut-and-carry hairstyle piece. I’ve already got all of the celebrity shots ready to go for art to layout into, um, long or short or curly—’

  ‘Perfect, it’s time I tried a new cut…’

  Everyone laughed; Karen changed her hair almost weekly. ‘And Beauty Beat, anything of interest there?’

  ‘Just the regular five pages, and one is a full-page shot of pink make-up, nail polishes, glosses and blush, and, um, I thought maybe we could shoot them with little sweets and candies?’

  ‘Gorgeous. I think I saw one like that in Elle, so make sure it’s not too similar, okay? All sounds great, Hannah. Okay, Bianca, where are you at with your pages?’

  Too Much Eyeshadow spoke up. ‘Um, sorry to interrupt, but is the Soppy Couple Story’ – this was actually how it was described on the schedule – ‘going to need us to shoot the couples?’

  ‘No. I think we’ll use drawings this month. Yes, Annabelle, we’re going to shoot them, you nutter. Bianca?’

  Annabelle grinned bashfully and wrote on her schedule.

  Tess, the baby-faced fashion junior, put her hand up. Today she was wearing a bright-yellow scarf as a headband, a white vintage dress, wild roman sandals that stopped just below her knees, and twenty nails’ worth of chipped black polish. She looked fabulous.