The Sex Was Great But... (18 page)

I ordered a couple more vodkas, because the original two I had ordered to keep my beer company had mysteriously disappeared—which probably wasn't a good sign. Normally I'm aware of what and how much I'm drinking, but tonight was different. Picking at a bit of gunk on the sleeve of my jacket, I thought about London and the clubs I used to frequent. It would be warming up there by now—almost tourist season.

I'd promised Mum I'd help her down the market this summer. Surely she'd have started thinking about where I was and what I was up to by now? Auntie Lucy would have said, “He's probably shacked up with some Yank tart. They all fuck like rabbits out there.” Auntie Lucy was convinced that all other women fucked like rabbits, but especially foreigners. It was the only way she could explain why she wasn't getting any.

I wondered if they'd have me back as DJ at any of the
old clubs. Probably not; you're soon forgotten if you're not in everyone's face. Coming to the States hasn't exactly been the career move of my life. Then again before I came here, I would never have thought of myself as the sort of guy to have a “career move” to make.

Holly had gone off and was working the room again. I watched her as she moved amongst the beautiful people—none of them anywhere near as sexy as her. She looked regal, moving amongst the crowd, occasionally sipping at the mineral water in her hand or throwing back her head in laughter. God, she was so beautiful.

Her long, muddled hair hung down her back, and I wanted to rush over and run my hands through it. My chest tightened and my stomach churned because I couldn't do that—not here, not anywhere where people would see.

A guy I didn't recognize grabbed Holly's hand and led her toward the swimming pool. I didn't recognize him as a celebrity, so he must be a big-shot executive, or something else behind the scenes. He looked good enough to be front-of-camera, though.

I looked around at all the glittering people, having their glittering conversations. This was Holly's world. These were her people. These bright, shiny, rich people, with their fabulous famous lives—lives that people like me could only read about—and their important conversations that people like me couldn't understand.

They'd all shaken my hand and looked me in the eye and talked to me as if I was their equal. But I wasn't anyone's equal. I was a fake, made over to look like them. And I knew that in a few weeks' time the show would air and then they'd all know who I
really
was. A no one.

Absolutely fucking no one.

The food started arriving. “Radishes and radicchio—yummy!” Nancy trilled without a trace of sarcasm when she returned from yet another trip to the rest room. I've never been one to envy success or glamour, and now I knew why. It was one let down after another. Off-limit minibars, Barbra Streisand and radishes. It was depressing; that was what it was.

“I hope Holly gets a chance to have a word with Ted tonight,” Nancy informed me as she nibbled rabbitlike at a radish. “They always looked so great together,” she sighed, slipping her hand between my legs. “They just looked so right together,” she repeated, between mouthfuls.

“Are you serious?” I asked, feeling like I'd been punched in the balls.

“That's what everyone's saying in the rest room. That's the consensus. I mean, you have to wonder why he came with her mom. It's obvious that was his motive—to get Holly jealous.” She was slurring her words, but just slightly.

“I don't get it,” I said.

“Why else turn up with her mom? He obviously wants to get Holly back.”

“But Ted's the guy who sold her out with those stories about her, right? I mean, she wouldn't piss on him now, surely?”

“Holly's always had a penchant for bastards. The badder the bastard, the harder she falls. Not like me. I prefer the losers.” She rubbed my groin. “And I mean that in the nicest, sexiest, most turned-on-and-hot-for-you possible way,” she slurred in my ear.

I pushed her hand away as I watched Holly kiss the guy on the cheek before wandering back through the crowd. He stayed glued to his mark at the fence, looking out over the L.A. view as she made her way toward us. Whoever he was, he didn't look too happy, and this cheered me up immeasurably.

I felt Nancy's hand on my fly, and as I pushed it away the band got stuck into an ironic rendition of an old Sinatra number. Holly sat down and Nancy and her started talking in hushed tones amongst themselves. Another vodka appeared at our table, but I was too busy listening to their conversation to reach over for it. Holly had her arms folded. She hadn't touched her food and seemed well pissed off. Nancy was being flippant in a way that I could tell was winding Holly up, although to be honest I couldn't hear what was actually being said.

All the while Nancy was chatting to Holly her hand was creeping higher and higher up my leg, and I was pushing it farther and farther down. I was about to take a sip of my vodka as the waiter asked in passing if we were all fine for drinks. Nancy asked for another vodka for me.

The drinks guy had a pierced eyebrow, and I could see that when he looked at me he saw a big-shot wanker in a tux with a drink problem. I felt remorseful. I was one of those wankers in tuxes I'd always hated. I ran my finger around the collar of my shirt again. Let's face it: I had more dignity when I was begging spare change for “tea” on Vermont.

Guilty, I tried to apologize for being a turd all evening, but Holly brushed me off, saying it wasn't important and that she was going to the rest room. A moment after she
left Nancy squeezed my penis and I yelped. Everyone at our table stared.

Holly came back over to me and hissed in my ear. “That is
so
not funny, Leo.” Christ, we were talking really angry.

It was pointless trying to explain that her friend had me quite literally by the balls.

“So, what say after this you come back to my place with me?” Nancy slurred drunkenly into my ear when Holly was gone.

“How much of this stuff have you drunk?” I asked, holding up her mineral water.

“I've been topping it up with vodka.” She giggled.

I took a sniff of her glass, not really believing her. “Girls in L.A. have no sense of cliché,” I told her, drinking the remainder of her glass myself. It was vodka all right—and not cut with water. It was neat. Concealing my irritation that I'd been taking the flak for her drinking all evening, I told her to give it a rest. She laughed far too loudly.

“Listen darh-ling, I've tried Buddhism, Scientology, Kabbalah, Feng Shui and Deepak Chopra, but I find neat vodka works best.”

A bald guy with a stumpy red ponytail that looked like it might be stuck on, sat down at our table. Nancy kissed him on the cheek and giggled stupidly before introducing me as a friend from London and him as Jack-the-head-of-the-network.

We shook hands. “From London, Leo? Hey, I love London.”

Yeah? That's great, 'cos there's a T-shirt you can buy that says that.
That was what I wanted to say, but instead I agreed that London was a hell of a city.

I stuck my finger in between my neck and collar again. Nancy was still feeling me up and I was still removing her hand.

Jack clicked his fingers to summon a waiter. Nancy giggled, and then clicked her fingers as well. Jack looked at her oddly as he ordered a JB and soda on the rocks with a slick arrogance that the waiter seemed to appreciate.

While he gave his order Nancy whispered in my ear to be careful because Jack was a complete bastard—like I needed a drunk girl with wandering hands to inform me of that?

“What do you do in London, Leo?” he asked, winking at Nancy. I told him I was a hired killer recruited to murder him by his enemies. Or at least I meant to tell him that. What I actually said was, “I'm a DJ, Jack.”

Nancy mimicked my accent. “I'm a DJ, Jack.” Then she fell about laughing and banging the table.

A second later she leaned over to whisper in my ear. “He grew that ponytail
after
it became unfashionable.” I don't see how Jack couldn't have heard her.

He looked from her to me. “A DJ in London? Do you know Chris Evans? I met him at a party at Soho House once. Nicest guy you could hope to meet.”

“The guy's a tosser. The top of my tosser list, in fact, Jack,” I told him, and I actually said that, too. I've never actually met Chris Evans, but I wanted to rattle the absurd arrogance of Jack. He looked like he wanted to hit me and I was resolved not to take the fetal position this time.

“Do I detect a tinge of jealousy?” he asked mildly.

I shrugged and downed the last of the vodka in one. I had to stop Nancy getting her free hand on it (her other
hand was still stroking my penis). “No, I don't do radio announcing. I'm a club DJ. I spin disks, line up the beats—trance music, mostly. So, no, jealousy doesn't enter into it, Jack.” Dinny would be proud of me for the way I was holding Jack's eyes and ending my sentences with his name.

He had told me to use people's names when I spoke to them. Said it increased my hold over them. Jack didn't look like a man I could ever hope to get a hold over. He must have been about one hundred and twenty kilos. His belly was big enough to fit another man in.

He asked me a few more questions, always careful to look over my shoulder while I answered him, which I figured was his brand of absurd snub. To wind him up, I started looking over his shoulder as well—only I craned my neck so I was more obvious about it.

While we were looking over one another's shoulders Nancy maneuvered her hand back between my legs, which were crossed for safekeeping, and somehow managed to free my penis. I'd forgotten to stick to my story about being an actor from London, but she didn't seem to be aware. “He's incredibly gifted,” she slurred.

He asked if I was doing any work while I was in L.A. I don't know what I said because I was struggling to get my dick back in my pants. Nancy was really pissing me off now. I gave her hand a pinch, which made her squeal.

Holly sat back down at the table and looked from Nancy to me, and threw me a glare that froze my balls.

Jack put his arm around her and asked how his favorite doll was doing. She told him she was better for seeing him, which didn't look to be the case at all. She looked terrified.

“I was just talking to Leo here about his work,” Jack informed her. “Interesting career,” he said pointedly.

I could tell she was worried that I'd been telling Jack all about my begging gig on Vermont.

“His…erm…work?” She crossed her wrists on the table, which was something I'd noticed she did when she was nervous on television.

I didn't get as much of a kick out of seeing her squirm as I thought I would. She looked at Nancy for help, but Nancy was berating the poor waiter for not bringing her ice.

“So, Holly, Leo—what's the score? You two dating?”

“Bloody waiters!” Nancy cut in. “How do you not bring ice—?”

I missed what was said after that, because that was when I noticed Mike standing over by the bar—that's Mike as in “Bad Ass” Monroe himself. He was chatting to a blond clone in a tight black dress who was practically wrapped around him. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I knew it was him. Not just because he had a long thin gray plait hanging down his back. But because you just know these things. Besides, I'd poked his eyes out of a million photographs.

I stood up, spilling my drink.

“Leo, what's the matter?” Holly asked, her hand grabbing mine.

“Nothing,” I lied, allowing myself to be pulled back down onto my chair.

“So, the reason I came over is because there's someone I want you to meet,” Jack told Holly. “He's up by the bar. An old friend of yours, actually. You remember Ted?”

“Yes, he's here with my mother,” Holly replied, as if she was completely comfortable with the idea.

“Forget about your mother for a minute. Anyway, she's outside giving an interview. He's alone at the bar. Waiting for you.”

I
know it sounds shallow—well, it is shallow—but I've never asked Leo about his dad—and he's never volunteered, which in itself seems to sum up who we are to one another. Apart from the nights when we're alone together, there are long stretches of emotional silence. We fill the space with our separate activities—Leo lapping the pool, or mixing up health drinks with Conchita in the kitchen, or listening to music on the personal stereo I bought him.

Because our relationship has no future, I've never really scrutinized or analyzed what makes him tick like I do with other men. Maybe that's why I feel so strongly about him.
I've spent so much mental energy trying not to get to know him, that I haven't had the time to analyze my feelings for him out of existence.

I've never enjoyed silence with a man before.

Maybe I'm worried that if I get to know him it will be harder to let go. And I
have
to let go. As much as I don't want to, as much as I want to throw my arms around him and never let go, I
have
to let him go. That is the right thing to do, and I always do the right thing. Even when it hurts.

It hurt a lot to pretend around everyone that Leo wasn't mine. I could see the way the girls were all looking at him tonight. Drew Barrymore had practically emptied her breasts onto him when she leaned over to adjust his bow tie.
He might look like a player now, but it's only because I paid for him to look like a player,
I wanted to scream. Deep down where it counted Leo was still a street person, and I was naive if I allowed myself to think otherwise.

But when I closed my eyes, like now, I did think. I thought of the touch of his hand guiding me through the throng, and how it had made me feel warm and safe. And I thought about all the times I'd thought Leo was about to touch me and he hadn't and how cold it had made me feel.

After the show aired all the people at this event tonight would realize that they'd been shaking hands with a fake. Everyone in the country would know. Some of them would find it funny and love the idea, and some of them would pretend they found it funny and hate it. I was starting to question the wisdom of the show, and that was madness. I had to let go and move on with my life. Leo had to move on with his. It was that simple. And that hard.

“He's up here,” Jack told me, as he staggered ever so slightly. His voice was thick with booze and, despite what Larry had said about this being the perfect opportunity to let Jack in on Leo's makeover, I didn't agree.

The crowd was swollen around the wooden steps leading up to the Sky Bar. Jack pushed me through the schmoozers, the couples kissing, the big shots talking up their various projects, the famous wanting to be even more famous and the wannabes wanting fame.

The bar was basically little more than a beach shack assembled on top of wooden decking overlooking the twinkling lights of L.A. Looking about me now, the self-conscious-pretentiousness of the place suddenly irritated the hell out of me in a way it never had before. The air-kissing, the hand-shaking, the deal-making—and the whole personal falseness of the place. You could smell the egos and the desperation. There was a throb of need buzzing through the crowd, passing through everyone from the patrons to the staff.

Sashaying between the crowd were drinks girls in sarongs, showing off their flat stomachs. While they were distributing the drinks and cigarettes they were secretly, or not so secretly, maneuvering—hoping that tonight was the night they'd be discovered and carried off to their true fate as a star on a new indie flick.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was starting to think like Leo.

In his eagerness to get to Ted, Jack took my elbow and gave me a push—which propelled me into one of the waitresses. She smiled adoringly at both of us, apologized and sashayed off.

“Cute,” Jack declared, before giving me another directional shove. “He's just over there, doll. Like I said,
alone,
see!”

I looked up and saw Ted at the far end of the hut. He waved. Sure enough he was alone. Terribly and uncomfortably alone.

“Tell me he isn't looking good, doll,” Jack gloated proudly.

I suddenly wanted to run back to Leo. It all felt hideously wrong.

When I had spoken to Ted earlier he'd said that he hoped I didn't take him bringing my mother to the event personally. I'd said of course it was fine. “Hey, it's business, right?” I'd said. But here's the skinny—for real, as Leo would say—the truth was, I did mind. I'd been looking out for him all night, a sick part of me wanting to catch my mother and him together. For purely therapeutic reasons, you understand. It's pathetic, I know, but since I'd heard she was here all I'd wanted to do was see the two of them together.

I was
over
Ted. That was the mantra I'd been playing in my head since the break up. And now it was true. I was way over him. Ted was my past. Ancient history. Everyone said so—apart from an Iranian clairvoyant in Beverly Hills, who continued to see him as my king of hearts. Even Wilhelm was a hundred percent confident Ted was consigned to the trash can of my past. So why was it that I had thrown up three times this evening with the anticipation that I might see him?

Every time a guy breaks your heart it's the same. You go through two weeks of tears and “how could he do that to
me?” Your therapist instructs you to “feel the pain.” Your girlfriends support you. They tell you “all men are bastards.” They tell you your lover was only reverting to type.

Then you go through the “maybe it was all a misunderstanding…maybe he didn't mean to…blah, blah, blah.” Your therapist refers to this as The Delusional State. Your girlfriends suggest you drink more margaritas.

You try out everything everyone suggests, but nothing really works apart from time. One day you simply wake up and you don't feel quite so alone.

You're cured.

You dump the therapist who got you through stage one and two and find a new therapist who can give you a higher level of support. The support only a new therapist can give. You begin to get some perspective, or whatever your new therapist likes to call perspective. With the help of your new therapist you slowly begin to see the relationship break up as a positive thing. You were never really suited anyway. You can do better. Your new therapist will start to get you to see the break up as a learning experience, and you comfort yourself, knowing that however men may hurt you in the future they will never hurt you in quite the same way again. Actually, they will find newer, nastier ways, but your therapists never tell you that.

And then you bump into him again—that guy who broke your heart. You walk up to him at a charity do and he looks at you with the look he always looked at you with when he turned up late. The little boy's got a boo-boo look, as Nancy calls it.

You smile at him indulgently, reverting to old patterns of behavior—and he's got you. Right where he wants you.
Forgetting all the evil things you planned to do if you ever got the opportunity again.

“Holly!” Ted drawled, as he kissed me on the cheek—just the one; Ted loathes pretension. He held me out at arm's length to examine me. It's one of his trademark gestures—“Makes girls feel special,” he confided to me once. Puke, I know, but guess what? It works. As Ted's eyes scrutinized me, I felt special.

Even though I tried to look unimpressed and aloof, I found myself grinning shyly like a debutante.

“Yeah, she looks good. We'll give her that!” Jack agreed—hinting at all the things he was not planning on giving me, I suspect.

Ted brushed his hand near, but without actually touching the fabric of my dress. “Let me guess—Givenchy?”

“McQueen.”

“He's not looking too bad himself, is he, Holly?” Jack asked, like some irritating buzzing fly I wanted to swat. “I tell you, Holly, this guy knows clothes.” I thought about the Versace swim trunks that Leo hates so much, and despite myself I started giggling.

“What's so funny?” Jack asked, looking confused. “Hey, did I say something funny?” He pointed to himself, thrilled at the prospect of his own wit.

“Sorry, Jack, I wasn't laughing at what you said. I was just, erm…thinking of something else.”

Jack looked disappointed. Like a lot of Hollywood suits, he thinks he's missed his creative calling. Suits always think they can write better, act better and direct better than the people they're paying. Jack's thing is comedy—he thinks given half the chance he could have been Jim Carrey, but
because of his duties and responsibilities as an executive he just never had the time.

The truth?

Jack's never said anything funny in all the time I've known him. If humor is an aphrodisiac, Jack is erotically challenged.

But then his stumpy red ponytail would tell you that. Only in L.A. would a guy like Jack never be short of a babe on his arm. Every three years for the last twelve Jack has married another girl, each one cuter, prettier and younger than the last. Then he's got her pregnant and run off with someone else. Everyone gossips about his wives and how they only marry Jack for what he can do for them. No one ever questions Jack's motives.

“Ted has an idea he wants you to hear, Holly!”

Ted looked alarmed. “Hang on a minute, Jack. It wasn't
my
idea,” he insisted.

I looked from one to the other, trying to work out what was going on. Men are so obvious when they're up to something.

“It's about the show,” Jack explained. He was careful not to slur his words enunciating each one clearly. Too clearly. I definitely didn't want to be talking business with my drunk network head and my ex.

“Sorry? What show?”

“What show?” Jack nudged Ted, threw his head back and laughed raucously—too raucously.

He didn't hear Ted say to me, “You've got to believe this is nothing,
nothing
to do with me, sweetness.” He'd used his nickname for me. Sweetness. He was breaking the rules. You never use your pet name for your ex after you split unless you're being especially vicious and sarcastic.

Jack took a Cohiba out of his top pocket and lit up. “Isn't she a kidder, Ted?”

Ted looked into my eyes. “She's a kidder,” he agreed. He put his arm protectively around my waist as two girls dressed in a few sequins and little else pushed past
en route
to the bar.

I felt the heat of his hand, and coupled with the smell of his skin it all felt like unpleasant
déjà vu.
Ted looked down at me and I thought to myself that even though I really hate him, he is still one of the best-looking men I've seen. He has a big strong jaw, and a glint in his eye that makes me feel safe when really I should be feeling very, very afraid.

“I told him it was a dumb idea. I don't want any part of it,” he repeated, using his hands for emphasis. “Nothing.”

I felt like I might throw up again.

Jack blew a big plume of smoke into my face. “He's just being modest, doll. The show and him are a perfect fit.” He was swaying slightly now.

“Ted and my show? Is that what you're saying?”

He looked dangerous when he replied. “Without you the network doesn't have a show. But without a network, doll…nor do you.” He blew some more smoke into my eyes before he continued, giving his words time to sink in. “Ted here can co-produce. He feels, and I agree, that the show needs to be more scripted. Open it up a little. What do you say?”

I felt like an ice cube had just been dropped on me. A very big ice cube. I was still looking from one bastard to the other, my eyes pleading for reassurance. I turned to Ted. “What's he saying? What is this? You're muscling in on my
show now?” I couldn't believe this was happening. My plans to discuss Leo's makeover had been totally hijacked. This was so random, and I didn't know what to do.

Ted stroked my arm. “Don't worry, sweetness. I've no intention of muscling in on your show.” And then he said to Jack, “I told you she wouldn't like it, Jack.”

Jack shrugged. He didn't look like he gave a damn what I liked. “Face it, doll, the show's sinking. And now we've got your mother to contend with.”

“That's not my fault.”

He shrugged again, as if he thought it was. “You know what they're calling you now?” He put the hand holding the cigar on my shoulder, as if to reassure me.

“Shallow?” I squeaked.

“Worse than that, kid. They're calling you the Ice Queen. And you know what that means?”

All I knew was that I was cold. So cold.

I turned to Ted again, the lesser of two evils, and asked him the question I'd wanted to ask him earlier but had chickened out of for the sake of business. “Why are you here with my mother, Ted?” There—I'd said it.

He looked as if I'd stuck a blade in his heart. “See, Holly, it's not how it looks. Your mother—I mean Catherine—she asked me…and well, the truth is, Holly, I didn't have an invite of my own. I couldn't say no, could I?”

I shook my head. As strange as it seemed, I suddenly felt sorry for the guy. I realized what it must have been like for him since he'd lost his job on the hit sitcom he was working on when I first met him. It wasn't just the invitations that had dried up. The City of Angels doesn't care for its fallen angels. One day valets are falling over
themselves to park your car, the next day you can't even get a reservation.

Walking into bars, you see your one-time colleagues turn away embarrassed for you, embarrassed for themselves for ever having known you. And now here was his big chance to be in the spotlight once more, and my mother was the one offering it. In that moment I hated this business and what it makes people do.

“It's okay, Ted, forget it.” All I cared about now was having left Leo alone.

A waitress walked past in her sarong, her midriff flat and brown. I rubbed my arms for warmth as I fought my way out of the fog of cigar smoke enveloping our group.