Air Kisses (3 page)

‘Oh, gee thanks, Han. Great to see you’re taking some gossip writer’s word over mine. Talk about guilty until proven innocent.’

Hold back, hold back,
hold back.

‘I mean, really, is this what our relationship comes down to? Me defending myself against a fucking gossip columnist? Honestly, I thought we were stronger than this, that my word would mean something, but no, seems you’d rather believe the tabloids. But, you know, if that’s all it takes to spell doom, well then, maybe we really are doomed, Hannah.’

There it was. The slimy cop-out. I couldn’t believe it, this was textbook stuff – he had done everything Iz had predicted!

‘Are you for
real
? You’re busted cheating and
that’s
your out?’

‘I’m not taking any out, Hannah, because, as I keep stressing,
there is nothing going on between Lisa and me.
’

‘Could’ve fuckin’ fooled me, Romeo.’

‘Is that necessary? Look, maybe we should wait until I’m home to talk about this. You’re angry and being unreasonable and this conversation isn’t getting us anywhere.’

‘Great idea. And with Lisa up there with you, I’m sure you two can nut out a brilliant exit speech for when you decide to tell me that you’ve been thinking, hey, know what, maybe it’s better we don’t see each other and—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t need to listen to this.’

‘Yeah, well, neither do I. Or read about it either, for that matter. I mean, Jesus, how do you think I felt when—’

‘We’ll talk Thursday. Goodbye, Hannah.’

Click.

I blinked a couple of times. I couldn’t breathe, let alone comprehend what had just happened. I had a furious urge to call him back and demand he explain himself, but I knew Jesse. He wouldn’t answer. He preferred to let me steam off my anger when we fought, while he carried on with his lunch/surf trip/toenail-clipping in non-emotional-man bliss.

I sat on a stranger’s brick wall and openly cried. It was a quiet street, but a procession of half-naked Italian male models could’ve walked past and I wouldn’t have had the strength or inclination to hide the fact I was in emotional ruins. After ten minutes, when I had finally got home and the tears had eased to loud sniffing, my phone beeped.

Had I just been dumped by text?

I could’ve sworn I’d just been dumped by text.

I reread it and realised that, yes, I had been dumped by text by a man. A man who had possibly been cheating on me. Today
had
to be some sick, twisted joke.

‘I need some space.’ I’ll give you space, fuckface. ‘Space’ was just boy-speak for ‘we’re finished’ and I knew it. How stupid did he think I was, exactly? I wasn’t going to wait around for him to think, ‘Hmmm, maybe I’ll get back with Hannah today. No, wait, I’ve got that golf tournament. Maybe tomorrow…’ Suddenly, a thought flashed through my head. It was, I guessed, the same brand of thought that popped into people’s heads when they were about to be eaten by a grizzly bear and the brain chucks it in and starts misfiring. It was a calm thought, one that cooed that I’d be fine, I’d be totally fine; people break up all the time, right?
I’d be fine
.

Plus, he had probably, no,
definitely
been cheating on me,
and if he was cheating on me, then I was better off without him anyway.

Prick!
Cheating prick!

Was
he a cheating prick? I was so confused.

I called Izzy. After three rings I was screaming into the phone, ‘Answer, for fuck’s sake. Just this one time,
answer
!’

She picked up.

‘Iz… Iz…he…he…we…dumped by…by…text. It’s
over
!’

‘Hannah, what happened? Ohmigod, Han!’

‘I…he…he…Jesse…you were right about psychology. He ch-ch-cheated on me!’

‘I’m coming over. You’re in no state to be alone.’

I heard Izzy coming down my street before she appeared at my door. Her car wasn’t noisy, but her dragging muffler was. Her car was always dented or dinged or derelict. She barely noticed. Two minutes later she was inside. Her
white-blonde
backcombed ponytail gave new meaning to the term ‘bedhead’, her green-brown eyes were locked into place with layers of black eyeliner and she was wearing a skimpy
coral-coloured
slip-dress that would be appropriate in, say, Miami, and Ugg boots that would be suitable in, ooh, Siberia. This was one of her post-work outfits, based on comfort rather than style.

‘Oh, honey, I am so sorry…’

She held me and allowed me to just cry all over her bare, tanned shoulder.

‘I just can’t believe he could be so cold,’ I said.

‘Let it all out, darling. I’m here now.’

With Iz holding me, rubbing my back, a strange peace washed over me. The situation clearly hadn’t sunk in.

Iz made us some chamomile tea and then listened as I raved about Jesse for two hours. As what came out of my mouth was largely rhetorical, Iz’s job was just to mm-hmm and nod.

‘And, you know, he’s just so
selfish
, Iz. This whole thing was because of him. I didn’t do anything wrong! And yet,
I’m
being dumped in one hundred and sixty characters or less! Oh,
I hate him.
Good luck to that Lisa skank, I say. She can have him.’

Cue more tears.

Iz didn’t know it that afternoon, but as she sat with me I was silently awarding her an A in Best Friend Break-Up Management. (She
would’ve
got an A+, but the criteria for that included producing Jesse, the two of them admitting it was all a big joke and then hugging me before suggesting we all go for ice-cream.) She was genuinely soothing, and didn’t suddenly morph into a marine biologist generously highlighting the fact that there were plenty more finned, gilled animals in the sea. She just listened and nodded and found positivity where there should have been none.

By 7 p.m., I was exhausted. Now that I’d verbally vomited up those first raw feelings, I kind of wanted to be alone so I could be overly dramatic and carry on like a bit of a loser. Wail a bit, slap pillows in anger and rip photos: that sort of caper.

‘Now, are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?’ Iz stood at the door, eyebrows raised, keys jangling in her hand. If her nail polish had been any more chipped, she could have skipped the remover altogether.

‘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:

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.

Chapter Four

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 girl 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 put 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.

‘With the denim shoot, is that sponsored or are we all right to use a variety of labels?’

‘
Great scarf
, Tess. All you need are some cat-eye sunglasses and a red convertible! I love it! Okay, denim. I need to chat to Laura about that. Kate, can you schedule a meeting for this morning? No biscuits, as per Laura’s orders. Oh, did you all know our advertising manager, Laura, is pregnant? Have I just ruined her news? Probably. Oops. That’s two ad girls in the last month gone the way of the baby. I’ll have to sell my own pages soon. Don’t drink the water upstairs, girls…’

We laughed because she was funny and she was nice and the way she spoke was interesting and we were glad that, unlike so many of the other magazines in the industry, we didn’t have an editor who terrorised us and belittled us and made us want to leave the industry entirely and become belly dancers.

Twenty-three minutes later and Karen was done. Back at my desk, I answered a few emails and then got stuck into writing a story about glycolic acid and why it was so brilliant for acne. But after a few paragraphs I got stuck. Not only was my brain not on task – it was back on Saturday morning again – but I actually had no idea what I was writing about. I leant my head on my hands and sighed. I wasn’t sure what had made me think this was going to be a fun/easy/achievable job for a
monkey from an advertising company because it clearly wasn’t.

To take my mind off that now-familiar sick feeling of missing Jesse, I decided to start calling in products with glycolic acid. Perhaps reading the press releases and learning about their celebrity fans would give me the inspiration to finish the story. I opened up my Beauty Contacts document. There were no less than 456 Beauty Contacts listed, and each was liable to swap jobs, brands or agencies within the next week, just to further confuse me. They were a transitory bunch, beauty PRs.