Chameleon On a Kaleidoscope (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) (15 page)

I looked like an idiot
that night because I hadn’t worn my favourite jeans. I had washed
them specially but they hadn’t been dry in time. And why had it
been so hot in October? I began sweating when we had to scramble
around in the subway station looking for the six train in the
airlessness and at one point I saw her incredulous look as those
cool blue-grey eyes registered the dark sweat stains seeping
through my shirt like bullet-wounds. She was beautiful, calm and
aloof. I was sweating. And as if to confirm this I heard nothing
more from her after saying goodbye that night. Was that it? It was
so rude. It was as if she had decided not to bother with me. It
seemed so wasteful so Punk Rock. Gothic even. Had it really been my
choice of clothing? For seven days and seven nights I ignored all
sorts of primal and spiritual urges to contact her. If she had told
me to fuck off and die I would have welcomed the clarity with
hysterical laughter but hearing nothing at all was
torture.

Your method of
letting me know you’re not interested (ie totally ignoring me) is
uncalled for. If after reading the excerpt from my book, you got
frightened, I guess I have to accept that, but it’s a novel after
all …would you be afraid to meet the writer of a murder mystery? If
you’re not interested, period, then of course that’s fine too but
don’t you think one short email is in order? You seemed quite down
to earth to me, and I’m amazed at myself to be writing this email
but I couldn’t have you think I was ok with just being
ignored….good luck.

My screen shuddered as I
clicked
send
and when it readjusted there was an email from
her. I thought it was one of those
I’m-out
of-the-office
-replies but no, it was her response to the email
I’d sent the previous week thanking her for a nice evening at the
movies.

chiselling
away on my latest piece. i think
it's likely i will be standing here at this same spot solidly for
the next 3 days.i will let you know if there's a break in the
clouds.literally as well as figuratively, it seems.
m

Her friendly email arrived
just as my pissy, self-centred bile-filled epistle went out. Had
I’d received it ten seconds earlier she would never have known.
Encouraged by I asked if she’d like to visit the Met Museum during
the week and her response was so half-hearted I suggested we do it
some other time and her response felt like I had freed her from a
disgusting obligation.

“
Thank you
for being so understanding”

It stung that was grateful
for the opportunity
not
to meet me. But such rebuttals made
me want her even more. My biggest fear was that she saw me as a
friend. That I was entering the Eunuchery. That I would fall
totally in love with her while she sat there innocent of all
charges. But that smile tranquilised me. What did it matter if I
was only her friend? It was nice being with her wasn’t it? We had a
nice time together didn’t we? I was enjoying myself wasn’t I? The
logic would rear up against the anaesthetic only to succumb to a
pleasant complacency.Why did I need to fuck her? What was wrong
with me? The act of having sex with her would protect me from being
emotionally bruised. It would act as my deposit, my safety net. My
safety-pin. And then during an impromptu meeting in a coffee shop
initiated by a text from her saying she’d unexpectedly found a
parking space near my apartment, she let her hair down for the
first time. She was beautiful. I had to actively wrench my eyes
away to prevent intoxication. I could only afford to take little
sips. She blushed noticeably and tilted her head in a way that gave
me the impression she felt something too. Either that or she could
see I was smitten and sympathised.

Yea bewareth,
step ye not so gleefully into the abyss

I’d had plenty of time to
prepare my defences against the paralysing effects of that evil
smile and the hypnotism conjured by those vicious blue/grey eyes,
so soothing and exciting at the same time, but now flanked by
curtains of dark shining hair something inside me quaked. I was
transported to my earliest memories of female beauty. Those pale
tolerant understanding Irish girls modelling itchy-looking
cardigans in my mother’s knitting catalogues. Marian had the kind
of face I could look at for hours and I used every conversational
trick I had to do exactly that. She seemed aware of this beauty but
determined to hide it. Or hide from it.

From time to time she’d
twist her face into an ugly expression to save me from the full
brunt of her seduction. As if embarrassed by her wealth she needed
to play it down. And the more self-effacing she appeared the more
perplexed I became.Was she only interested in me because there were
two more apartments vacant in my building? Would she suffer untold
indignities to get into one of them? Was she merely waiting to
confirm that I had money stashed in Amsterdam? After three hours
walking around downtown Manhattan there was still nothing I could
confidently point at that indicated I should make a move on her.
Meanwhile her body language mumbled all manner of half-heard
obscenities. She pushed out those lovely pert breasts and twirled a
finger in her heavy dark hair. She held my gaze in hers and
refreshed her lip-gloss not just once but twice and when we stopped
for a coffee she drew my attention to her boots turning them
sideways to point at the frayed soles caused by our long walks and
in doing so crossed and re-crossed those clean lean legs showing me
far more than was necessary. Was she just teasing me? Was this
something she got off on? I could plainly see other guys out of her
periphery vision looking at her unhindered by any need to be
polite. I looked for opportunities to move things forward I was
still wary of being cast as the friend of this beautiful scruffy
girl. When she made even the slightest effort she was stunning. And
yes that smile was celestial.

Celestial.

I felt sorry for her
having to be seen with me. It was obvious she could do so much
better. Maybe it was because she had recently broken up with a guy
who she described as “very pretty” and “very tall” and “very rich”
Surely I was just a consoling gnome trotting along beside her,
yelping happily every time she flashed a smile. I didn’t feel
worthy of playing the male lead and yet I wasn’t about to cheat
myself out of the chance of getting close to that body either. If
any sexual crumbs fell of the table I’d be there. She was
definitely worth the wait, if waiting was what I was
doing.

At worst I’d learn how to
behave around beauty and I could use my findings on future
prospects. In the meantime, I could at least pretend I was with
her. She liked to walk around downtown visiting historic sites and
I was quite happy with this idea because walking was perfect for
making a move. And it was inexpensive.

But there was something
nice about just getting to know her as a friend. Most of her
friends were guys she said. This was an ominous sign. It meant
women couldn’t stand being around her because she was naturally
slim and beautiful and men would do anything to get into her pants
including pretend to be her friend. The last thing she said before
disappearing into the subway station that afternoon was; “I have to
start looking for an apartment in Manhattan.” It was as if she
wanted me to be clearly briefed. She was sharing with a roommate
who she didn’t get on with. Did she only want me for my
two-bedroomed apartment? Was I merely a real estate to
her?

This had to
stop.

We went walking again and
she looked great in her tight jeans. She had that tight little ass
in there. God help me. She was so feisty and sprite I thought I had
better make a move soon or she wouldn’t be available for much
longer. Some guy would approach her on a subway or in a café or in
the street and that’d be the end of me. We sat on a bench in Union
Square and as we chatted and laughed at the squirrels she played
with her hair and shoved out those breasts and even touched my knee
not just once, but twice.

“
I’d really
like to kiss you’ I said

The squirrels froze in
mid-nibble as an excruciating silence descended. It was so
prolonged it seemed intentionally cruel. I should apologise. Make a
joke. I had ruined everything. She inspected her boots. Feet
together. I risked a look and instead of the beautiful smile there
was only a lipless line.

“
I’m not
ready.” she said, more to herself, than anyone else. And suddenly
she just appeared extraordinarily vain. I had been reluctant to
bring up the kiss at all but I was torn between a fear that she
might be insulted if I didn’t and a gung-ho need to at least get
the subject aired.

“
Ok,” I said,
“but I just wanted you to know that I’d like to.”

There was a second
uncomfortable pause and though I sensed my application was being
considered I’d had enough for one night. I had a sudden need to do
some rejecting of my own.

“
Alright
then, let’s get you to a subway.”

After a joyless hug at the
subway station where nothing more than our jackets touched I walked
home feeling bruised and used but glad I had tried. I hoped I’d
never see her again. I’d concentrate on my book. Maybe I’d use the
AA meetings for contacts. There were so many well-connected people
attending meetings all over the city it seemed wasteful not to
approach one of them. I would routinely sit beside Cute-E, Simon
Reeves, Patt Nillon, Anthony Sherts, Ulrich Wapton, writers,
actors, models and millionaires. People less principled than I
turned up at meetings
pretending
to be alcoholics just so
they could network.

Years before when I lived
in London, I myself, had sponsored the now famous Terrance Cutler
when he first came into the rooms. It was obvious that in asking me
to sponsor him he was looking to get a part in a commercial. And I,
hoping to trick him into getting sober encouraged him to believe
I’d cast him in something as soon as he completed the Twelves
Steps. But Terry was too clever for me. He had already taken the
precaution of asking two other well-placed AA members to sponsor
him so that he could decide which of us might offer the best career
opportunity. He stopped calling after only a few days and I assumed
he’d gone back to drinking. A few months later on a director’s show
reel I was faced with one of the most macabre images I‘ve ever
seen. Terry holding up a pint to camera. He had landed a part in a
Blackbeer commercial.

The concept featured
identical twins, both played by Terry, philosophising about the
nature of dark and light while perhaps inwardly deciding whether to
trade his sobriety for an acting career. The historic moment where
he quaffs thirstily from the darkness is preserved forever. There’s
an ad for AA in there somewhere.

“
Can you
forgive me for being such a teenager the other night?” Although her
text acknowledged my disappointment it still didn’t offer anything
even resembling hope. She was in town in her champagne-coloured
Falfaux and if I wanted to go for a drive
she’d be game
.
This expression had vaguely sexual connotations for me but I knew
it wasn’t how she meant it. And though I would have loved to take
her up on the offer she had to be punished for refusing my
advances. I felt I had to protect myself from getting any more
involved with her. Her offer of a drive felt like a platonic
consolation for a sexually rejected buddy. I replied simply with a
link to my newly completed website in the hope that it would show
her I wasn’t just some penniless idiot who should count himself
lucky to be with her and that, if anything, it was the other way
around. I hadn’t really gone into detail about my advertising work
because I wanted her to think of me as a writer. My intention now
was to show her how cool I was, while at the same time denying her
access. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to be so proud of my
advertising work especially in art circles but it was beginning to
look like I could.

An hour later, which in my
mind, was enough time to check out my website and understand just
how award-winning and internationally fucking wonderful I was, she
texted me again;
the girl just wasn’t ready… try again you will
have more success.
It was wearying to be proven right but I
wasn’t going to refuse.

After a faultless dinner
at a medium-priced Tibetan restaurant where we split the bill, I
invited her back to my fur-lined lair. She looked lovely. There was
something almost Midwestern about her manner as if she had yet to
be Manhattanised. Her hair looked like Princess Leila by Pippi
Longstocking. I liked it more when she wore her hair down because
it framed that beautiful smile and made her appear like she was
from seventies France but the significance was not lost on me that
this was indeed date-hair. It was now just a question of where and
when we would kiss.

There was a certain
sadness attached to this realisation. As a lowly writer I was
unkissable but she was willing to spend two hours on her hair for
an award-winning advertising man It was a nagging doubt that
persisted even as I nudged her gently against the railings of
Tompkins Square Park and in the cool January air we kissed for the
first time. She flicked her tongue gently across mine and for a
moment I wanted to just jam her against the railings but it felt
too disrespectful. Instead we strolled back to my place pretending
to be interested in what we saw on the way. I fumbled my keys at
both doors and since I’d made such a big deal out of having bought
Barry’s tea from Cork she stood dutifully still while I went
through the motions of putting on the kettle.