Air Kisses (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

‘I always harboured a desire to be one of those girls who sashays in and out of buildings and elegantly hails cabs, all the while looking glamorous and composed and New Yorky,’ I said wistfully, as Gabe swiped some of the fruit from the top of my muesli. We were having a quick pre-work breakfast at Doppio, and, as always, Gabe had under-ordered because he was on a diet. He then, as always, thieved half of mine.

‘You have a way to go yet, darling. I’ve seen you: you claw your way out of the back seat like a Michael Jackson
Thriller
extra exiting a grave. It’s not right, sweetie: you’re flashing areas of the thigh no one needs to see. Honestly.’

‘I
do not
.’

‘Darling – oh look, you’ve spilled some food on your top for something different – you know you do. It’s simple: keep the stilts
snapped shut. That way you can’t flash any of the nasty stuff.’

I told him I would try, and the topic was closed. He was very fixed on improving my decorum – he called it Mission Elegant Bitch. He thought my small-town idiosyncrasies were vulgar, and needed desperate, urgent chic-ifying. ‘In fact,’ he would say, ‘and this is something I’ll probably sell as a thesis one day to finance a beach house, I’m pretty convinced that one’s elegance is directly proportionate to how much time one spends with a stylish gay man. Obviously, this means you should up your time spent with me. A lot. Now, don’t dwell on the astounding complexity of that philosophy; just know that it’s pretty much, totally, 100 per cent, probably, a fact.’

He liked to bait me by saying my becoming an Elegant Bitch would be the clincher to Jesse’s decision that he couldn’t live without me. Even though Gabe made it no secret he thought I should move on and find a man with ‘more money, more style and less inclination toward loose weather tarts.’

I listened to him because he was tough on me, whereas Iz wasn’t. She sympathised; Gabe chastised. And also because he was so stylish and commanding and knew all the fashion people. Even though this morning’s pirate-style frilly blouse was a bit hard to take.

‘For fuck’s
sake
, can someone gag and bind those silly cows?’ Gabe swivelled his head to look at two squealy, giggly women standing near the barista.

‘Oh shit, it’s Jill—’

‘It is, too. Bloody creature. She’s so wrong. And look at that bag – honey, if you’re gonna buy the fake Chanel, at least get it in a colour Karl Lagerfeld wouldn’t be embarrassed to be in the same galaxy as. Honestly, I don’t know how you lot meet your deadlines, you must be so flat out lapping up saucers of milk and sharpening your claws.’

‘It’s not like that, Gabe. I just don’t get a good vibe from Jill, is all.’

‘Oh, stop the cover-up. You’re rubbish at it. I know exactly what beauty editors are like: it’s the bitchy and scratchy show behind all that lip gloss and hairspray.’ He leant over and stole another sip of my latte, because he had already had two and knew he couldn’t have three during one sitting, because that would be uncouth.

Gabe wasn’t alone in thinking that of beauty editors; everyone asked me if the girls were catty and cliquey. It stemmed from that universal belief that the bowels of any women’s glossy was rife with the sort of petulant backstabbing that would make a Vegas showgirl blush.

‘I disagree, actually. For every blunt-fringed, black-clad fashion editor stomping on a trembling intern’s foot, there is a beauty editor with big bouncy curls and a floral frock singing about sunshine and flowers and handing out cupcakes.’

He laughed. ‘That’s a stereotype and you know it – fashion types don’t
all
have blunt fringes.’

When I got to my desk an abnormal number of courier bags and parcels awaited me. They were lined up and piled neatly, but still entirely overwhelming. I had completely forgotten I’d done my beauty call-in yesterday afternoon.

The monthly beauty call-in was a major event for me. It was what I did after planning my beauty pages, when I had decided (or made up) what the trends were for that month.

Yesterday I had asked for comfort crèmes, face washes to clear spots, tuberose-based fragrances, sea-salt sprays, coral-coloured lipsticks and some blushes. I had put all of my requests into a group email to every brand’s PR. They then started sending in samples at the speed of lightning.

I needed to set aside a full day to test and sort through all the suggestions, and put aside those I wanted to photograph and write about. Things like price, how the product would come up on the page, and whether an eyeliner was the perfect shade of aqua (as per the latest Miu Miu ready-to-wear) were crucial. I always had to double or triple edit the list before I hit send. If I didn’t ask for the right things, it would be too late to ask for more, because my shoot day closely followed my call-in.

On top of that, I had to factor in all of the really big cosmetic launches for the on-sale period of each issue of
Gloss
. This was always confusing because we worked three months ahead, and by the time the mag was on sale, the products for that month were old news to me. But missing them meant I could potentially get into lots of trouble indeed.

Last month I had completely forgotten to mention the new Karen Jones mascara. It was their biggest launch for the year, as well, they were the first company to market mascara with an entirely silicon comb-wand thingy,
and
they had booked all of their advertising for said mascara in said issue. I got slammed by Marley, the psychotic media-agency girl Lindsay, and, in the nicest, as-inoffensive-as-possible way, the PR girl, Jane.

‘We were really disappointed to see that Flexilash didn’t receive any mentions in the current issue, especially considering how important a launch this was for us,’ said Jane in a scary passive-aggressive email. Lesson well and truly learnt: Flexilash to receive many adoring words and a large, beautiful picture in the next issue.

I took off my heels, slipped on the ballet slippers I kept under my desk for schlepping around the office, and started opening the boxes, wondering if anyone had understood what on Earth I had meant when I’d requested ‘non-bronzer, slightly shimmery peach and apricot shades of powder – not crème – blush’.

Chapter Thirteen

I had sworn off dates and flirting and men in general. I was now all about me: getting myself together and focusing on being happy.

My newfound mantra had come from a book called
He Ain’t Thinking ’Bout
You,
Suga
’, which encouraged women everywhere to stop placing so much emphasis on men and relationships.

And, as always happens, the minute you stop looking…

Dan was one of those guys who when he walked into a party, roughly four hours after everyone else, women turned to their single friends and hissed: ‘Dibs! Right, who else do I have to tell?’

Well, that’s how I felt, anyway, when he walked into Yasmin’s house-warming party.

Dan just radiated…
something
. Insouciance blended with a dash of confidence, most likely. But he wasn’t overcompensating the way super-hot or super-wealthy dudes do. He was well-dressed, in unbranded jeans and a dark T-shirt, and he reminded me of that actor from
The Motorcycle Diaries.
He had fluffy long hair, which was endearing in a fashion-ignorant way.

Dan must not have sensed how predatory I was feeling, because he kept smiling in my direction. I decided to strike. Breaking several of my hardcore-bitch rules en route:

I
sauntered over to him.
(Violation of Rule No. 34)

I
initiated the conversation
. (Violation of Rule No. 56)

‘So. You’re that famous guy, huh?’ It was a line Jacinta had put into her latest ‘How to Find a Good Guy’ article. I’d been dying to try it. The fact that I had on my Boozy the Clown shoes helped. Right now I was the funniest, sauciest girl in the world; irresistable pick-up lines fell from my mouth with ease and perfect timing.

‘Um… I don’t think so. But I can be, if it helps?’

Perfect.

‘No, no, being common is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m Hannah, by the way. Totally common Hannah.’

He smiled. ‘Dan. But you can call me Famous Guy.’

‘Accent, huh? That’s not very common.’ As I rearranged my hands, I nicked the tip of my glass. Wine splashed all over my top.

Dan tried not to smile as he watched me frantically blot it.

‘So, now that I’ve proved that I’m definitely common…’

‘I’m from LA,’ he said, pouring more wine into my glass.

‘So you’re trying to be famous?’

‘Nah, who needs fame when you’re already a multi-millionaire?’

Oh, he was good. I laughed and sipped my drink.

After an hour of flirty getting-to-know-you talk, I discovered that Dan was a property developer-slash-real-estate agent-slash-crazy entrepreneur who was about to become obscenely rich. He worked with his brother selling ridiculously expensive property for people with too much money and not enough time; he’d then reinvest their money into commercial developments that would make the clients far more money, because even though they didn’t actually need the extra cash, they enjoyed having it all the same. I also learnt that Dan never finished high school, that he hated bananas because their consistency reminded him of snot, and that he wanted desperately to own a python. I found all of this fascinating, especially as I’d been known to eat up to three bananas a day. But eventually I grew bored of the usual platitudes and began speaking with
lascivious intonation.
(Violation of Rule No. 98)

According to Iz, who swore she saw the whole shonky honeytrap assembled, and who tried in vain to hold back snorts of laughter as she retold the story the next day, I
winked at him
before going to
get him a drink
. (Violation of Rule Nos. 23 and 45)

But it worked. We moved to the sofa and kept talking while the party wound down around us. I have no idea what about, but he was very funny and clever and knew lots of things about lots of things. I suspect I was terribly engaging and witty too, as he seemed to be enjoying himself. Or else he was drunk.

In any case, when he stood up and asked if he could walk me home, I happily accepted.

On the street I took off my shoes, which I
never
did, but they were new and absolutely killing me.

‘I never do this, I swear. I have never been the tramp with her shoes off at the end of the night.’

‘Actions speak louder than—’ I threw a shoe at him.

Once we reached my door, I turned and smiled at him. ‘
So
…this is where it gets awkwa—’

He swooped in and kissed me.

We stood there and kissed. We fell against the wall. I gripped the back of his head, and then he moved his hands up under my Safari shirtdress to squeeze my bum. My brain was screaming ‘TAKE HIM UPSTAIRS,’ but, immediately after, my conscience piped up with, ‘
No!
You mustn’t! You’ve just met him!’ I felt daring, as though I was being offered an opportunity that would only come along every so often, where I could be wild and crazy and throw caution to the midnight breeze, and
live
, just for a few wild hours. Then I thought of my rules. Nuts.

‘What happens now?’ Dan mumbled, as he kissed my chest and I arched my back to let him.

‘You say goodbye and I go upstairs…’ I said slowly, reluctantly.

‘Alone?’

‘Yesss, alone…’ I hated what was coming out of my mouth. I so, so wanted him to come upstairs. It had to be a clean break or I would never go.

‘OkayI’mgoingnow!’

I broke free of his grip, turned my key in the lock and jumped through the door of my apartment-block foyer. I
turned to face Dan before closing it. His hair was everywhere and his face was flushed.

His eyes were disbelieving.

‘You cheeky little monkey,’ he said with a smile, straightening up his jeans. ‘I’ll get you, don’t you worry.’ He started walking backwards.

‘We’ll see…’ I replied, smiling, as I closed the door.

I looked at my reflection in the lift. My hair and make-up would frighten the elderly and I had a smile that suggested marijuana use. I glanced at my phone. Ah yes, the very respectable time of 4.34 a.m. Thank God it was Sunday.

Once in my bedroom, I removed my make-up with the facial wipes I kept in my bedside drawer for late, lazy nights, and fell into bed, the goofy, gooey smile refusing to leave my face. I hadn’t felt a glow like this for a long time. There was a quiet, urgent voice bubbling away in the back of my head, whispering caution about getting hurt again, but I chose to ignore it.

At around 11 a.m. Iz came around and we cooked up bacon and eggs and laughed at how ill the other looked. She was wearing a frilly summer dress over jeans, with ballet slippers, a scarf, large hoops and sunglasses on her head. None of it matched.

‘You look like shit.’

‘You look
worse
. Thought you beauty editors told us not to go to bed wearing slap.’

‘I took it off! This is just…leftovers.’

She laughed and I sighed dramatically. I felt like hell.

‘So, do you think Dan will call?’

I hoped so. I’d already checked my phone three times. ‘Not sure. I’m pretty sure I gave him my number, but who knows? And anyway, he could be a total flake.’

‘Doubt it. He spent all night with you. And he didn’t turn when you didn’t sleep with him. He’ll call,’ she said knowingly.

‘Well, we’ll see. Joowanna see a movie?’

She looked at me for a second before answering. ‘I’m supposed to work on a new menu, but yeah. Screw it. Let’s go.’

Once we got into the movie, a silly romantic comedy, Iz promptly fell asleep, while I ate my body weight in cold salty popcorn. When we walked out, Iz went into the bathroom and I checked my phone. Two missed calls from a private number. I listened to the voicemail.

It was
him
. Dan had called, asking to see me that night.

I hung up with a whopping big grin. There was a small envelope still on my phone; I checked my inbox. There was a text from a number that I didn’t recognise.

Oh, he was funny. And cute. And
wanted to see me tonight.
Iz had come back from the loo looking one drip of morphine off comatose.

I grabbed her hands and squealed, ‘He called, he called, and he wants to see me tonight!’

She immediately came to life. ‘Oooooh! Honey! Look at you! You’re all excited!’

‘But I can’t see him tonight – no way, that’s too keen. You know my rules: three days till tickets to the second show are available.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Han. Cut it out. Be human for once and see the poor guy. Didn’t you say he was going back to LA soon? To sell Donald Trump’s beach house or whatever? Live a little!’

‘How do you expect men to value your time if you drop everything to see them at a few hours’ notice? You might as well have a flashing neon sign saying: “I have no life.”’

‘Right. And which plans, exactly, would you be dropping for him?’

I sighed, exasperated. ‘Not the point. It’s about making them wait for you, pine for you, get excited about seeing you again.’

‘You’re insane. You sound like a Fifties housewife. See the boy or miss out on what could have been excellent. Regret what you do, not what you don’t – isn’t that what you used to say?’

‘I’ve changed, baby.’

‘For the worse. I know Jesse screwed you over, but that doesn’t mean every guy is out to hurt you. Text him and say yes.’

‘Gosh,
someone
needs some sleep.’

‘I won’t argue with that. But my point still stands.’

As we drove home, I struggled with what to do. Seeing him tonight really would be going against all my rules. But then, I’d already broken most of them last night…

‘All right. I’ll
go
,’ I said, leaning my head back on the passenger seat and sighing dramatically.

‘Course you will. Good girl,’ Iz said with a smug smile.

Now I just had to text him. And it had to be good.

I hit send and waited nervously. What if he didn’t respond?

Twenty minutes went by. Nothing. I took it out on Iz. ‘See, this is why I’ve sworn off men. They are torture. They do my head i—’

The magical two beeps chimed in.

He was winning. I melted more and more each time I reread his text. How could I possibly rebuff? He was practically telling me he wanted to father my children.

I wasn’t anxious as I got ready – the
one
upside to a hangover is the numbing of nerves – and when seven hit, Dan called to say he was outside. I was impressed with his punctuality. I was impressed with everything he did. Kisses especially…

I strutted outside like I did this kind of thing all the time. I was dressed in what Iz deemed to be a no-fail date outfit: jeans that made me look skinny (as opposed to my skinny jeans, which made me look fat), saucy tan heels that made my coral toenails look like yummy little lollies, and a white singlet filled with chicken fillets and a push-up bra, which would serve to remind him that I was the proprietor of mammary glands.

He looked me up and down from his driver’s seat. The car
was a Hertz hire car, a dull white family sedan. ‘Service car, babe. Ferrari’s getting some work.’ He winked and nodded sleazily.

I laughed.

‘You look fresh, so fresh!’ he said with zest.

I liked him even more. ‘Fresh’ is one of the highest compliments you can offer a woman. I jumped in, and he kissed me on the cheek. Then on the mouth. I giggled like a schoolgirl. He looked hot, in that same devil-may-care, I-didn’t-put-in-any-effort way. He was wearing a blue grandpa-style top, checked golf pants and fruity pink-and-yellow Adidas trainers, which he caught me gawking at.

He had style. His
own
style. Jesse always wore the same thing: jeans and a collared shirt.

After a few ridiculous exchanges about the monster with no shoes escaping once more to terrorise the neighbourhood, we arrived at a posh pub near the house Dan was staying in. Once inside, he took charge, ordering two glasses of a lovely red wine, salami-swamped antipasto and some salt-and-pepper squid.

‘And what if I were vegetarian?’ God, I was being so
flirty
.

‘Ah, but you’re not, because I saw you eating that sausage sandwich earlier this morning. At roughly 2 a.m., if memory serves.’