‘This is Rob,’ says a person who definitely sounds more senior than Jess. Rob sounds pissed off to even be on the call.
‘Rob, hi. I’m—’
‘We do not offer backstage passes for any of our events to members of the public, and I’m sure you understand this if you are who you say you are,’ Rob says, before hanging up.
‘Well, fuck you anyway, Rob,’ I yell at the disconnect tone.
Naomi is out having lunch dates with guys for the second afternoon in a row and, I won’t lie, I am jealous. She deserves a little fun, but even though this is a situation ofmy own doing, it’s making me feel a little restless. I want to be the one lit by flattering candlelight, making eyes across a table, wearing a dress that will find itself on someone else’s bedroom floor within mere hours.
There I am, lying in my room, staring up at the fucking Harry Potter lampshade, indulging in my secret single behaviour, which has now become secret roommate behaviour, now that I am sort-of single. I’m just back from a very enlivening dash around Sephora, where I dropped $400 on hair masks, face masks, hair-removal contraptions, fake tan, brow dye, lash extensions and ballet-pink nail polish. All essential, as far as I’m concerned.
The woman in Sephora had recommended a red lip shade. ‘You’re so pale you are actually going to need a red that’s almost blue,’ she explains.
‘But I’ll be wearing this soon,’ I said, showing her the fake tan bottle.
‘Even so.’ She sighs. ‘That will just warm you up a little. Stick to the bluer reds.’
In this new life of mine, I am determined to be fragrant and hairless and poreless and just incidentally, effortlessly, naturally tidy-looking. Post-orgasmic. As though every single cell in my corporeal self just incidentally glistens with youth and allure.
I get myself supine on the bed, slathered from crown to heel with every potion, oil and skin softener in the house, when I hear the door open. Naomi is walking in, voice raised as though she’s apprehending someone. A man. I crane my neck to listen and immediately recognize the voice. I can suddenly hear my heartbeat in my ears. Fuck, fuck, a thousand times fuck.
Ted Levy is in this house. In the room right underneaththis one. As the crow flies, he is probably about three metres from me.
‘I don’t fucking CARE,’ Naomi seethes at one point. ‘YOU go talk to her.’ Some mumbling from him, indecipherable, and then she says, ‘You figure it out! What IS this? She’s not even my real mom! WHY do you always do this stuff to me? This is so typical of you!’
Quick as Concorde, I am up from the bed, wiping oils from my thighs, running a wet washcloth across my face to remove the face mask all at the same time. It’s no use, I’m still all greased, so I jump in the shower to rinse a host of lotions and potions down the drain. My racing heart has made physical co-ordination somehow trickier. Still wet and with a trembling hand, I draw on some eyebrows and apply foundation. In the excitement, I apply winged eyeliner that registers as a touch too dramatic for 2 p.m. in the Toronto suburbs. It’s still the quickest I’ve ever applied a full face of make-up, about five minutes in all. I gamble on the wet hair making me look casual as I fly down the stairs in one smooth and speedy motion.
Naomi is out on the porch smoking a cigarette, agitated. Alone.
Please don’t tell me he’s gone.I stifle the impulse to wail.
‘Hi! I thought I heard voices,’ I say, soft as butter.
‘Ugh, well, you probably did,’ she says. She exhales in the manner of the extravagantly stressed.
‘Was it a neighbour or—’
‘Just my step-brother, being an asshole as usual,’ she replies. ‘Anyway, he’s gone now. I won’t bore you with the finer details.’
I feel a defensive pang for Ted. Calling him an asshole! What’s he done to deserve that?
‘Well, if you want to talk about it…’
‘I don’t,’ she snaps, looking me straight in the eye. She is so cold and clearly over talking to me that I worry I’ve somehow been found out.
‘No worries at all,’ I say breezily, heading back into the house. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’
Back in the bedroom, I punch the pillow a dozen times. The adrenaline is wearing off and turning into something nastier. Regret. Frustration. To calm myself, I lie on the bed and let myself have a small fantasy, what could have been.
Ted and I in bed, sweaty and heady from non-stop sex: ‘I have a confession to make,’ he will say, trailing a finger down my side, the part that drives me wild, no matter who is touching it. ‘That day I saw you just out of the shower with no make-up on? I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d never seen in my life.’
I’ll look at him as if he is crazy. ‘No way. You cannot be serious. I was in absolute bits.’
‘Serious as a heart attack. You were just gorgeous. I really thought, “There’s the girl for me.”’
19
‘OMFG!!! Send us a picture. Of her, of anything,’ Violet types in a private message. The froideur between the two of us immediately dissipated once I let her in on the sort-of truth: that I was, for now at least, friendly enough with Naomi Levy to be in her house.
