Elegance and Innocence (25 page)

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Shame on you, Col! How dare you speak like that! Not only are you demeaning yourself, but you’re also being incredibly harsh on him. Do you really think so little of both of you? If that’s the way you honestly think he is, I wonder that you’re bothering to pursue him at all!’

‘I’m not pursuing; I’m pining,’ he corrects me. ‘Which is exactly why I’m allowed to form bitter and twisted judgments about the object of my desire. Besides, I don’t expect you to understand,’ he adds grandly. ‘I’m suffering from a condition that you can only guess at, Louise – a love that dare not speak its name.’

I ignore this last bit of drama. ‘And where did you meet this Adonis?’ I imagine some gyrating figure at Heaven or one of the pulsating pelvises from GAY.

But Colin blushes and begins fumbling with the strap on his backpack like a fourteen year old. ‘He’s … I met him the day you sent me over to Copy Cat with the autumn season proofs.’

‘The printer man?’ I can’t believe it. ‘Col, are you in love with Andy the printer man?’

He looks at me in surprise. ‘You know his name?’

‘Of course! He’s a total sweetie! He looks after our account; I’ve known him for ages.’

‘Andy.’ He repeats his name softly, as if invoking some magical being.

‘Col, this isn’t a love that dare not speak its name; it’s Andy the printer man! He’s a darling. Just ask him out!’

We’re back to more fourteen-year-old mumbling. ‘Well, I’ll … I’ll certainly think about it …’

‘Don’t think, act!’ I urge him.

He mumbles a bit more and the words ‘but’, ‘can’t’ and ‘Adonis’ are tossed around a few more times.

‘Anyway, what’s all this about an interview?’ he says suddenly, obviously desperate to change the subject.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but I thought there’d be no point in mentioning it if I didn’t get one.’

‘And in the development department.’ He’s really listening now. ‘Very posh!’

I smile and he reaches out and takes my hand.

‘So you’re leaving us, are you?’

I nod. ‘Time to move on, darling. Time to move on.’

In the days that follow, I proceed to do what I always do when big changes are afoot: I panic. I panic about my background, my age, my lack of experience, my qualifications, my hair, my outfit for the interview, what will happen if I do get the job, what will happen if I don’t, what they might ask me, and, most of all, how I’ll respond to all these fictional questions. I sit alone at a table in the staff canteen, answering them at some length, until one of my colleagues confesses I’m starting to frighten them and asks me to stop.

Colin, in the meantime, seems to have taken on a new lease of life. Not only has his depression lifted, but he positively glows with renewed health and vigour. When at last I lift my head long enough from my own obsessions to notice, I’m amazed to find him a man transformed.

‘You seem well.’ I eye him as he bounces from his desk to the stationery cupboard in a single bound.

He just smiles at me.

‘Have you lost weight?’ There’s something about him I can’t quite place; a subtle difference I can’t put my finger on. It’s infuriating. I’m actually starting to feel jealous of him. And in my already heightened state, it’s more than I can bear.

‘C’mon,’ I snap. ‘What is it? What have you done?’

‘Jesus, Ouise! Take a chill pill, why don’t you!’ he giggles,
and then, seeing the look of psychopathic dementia cross my face, adds gently. ‘I was going to tell you about it anyway. It’s a new self-tanning solution and it’s amazing; makes you look ten years younger and ten pounds lighter overnight! I’ll tell you, darling, it’s just the boost you and the rest of rain-soaked London needs.’ He leans forward. ‘I’m even going to stop by the print shop on my way home and see if I can’t lure Andy out for a drink! Really, you ought to try it. It’s done wonders for my self-esteem.’

I look at him sceptically. ‘You can’t be talking about that orange stuff in a bottle?’

He taps the side of his nose. ‘When I get home tonight, IF I get home tonight, I’ll show you everything. I promise.’ And he skips away from me before I can respond.

That night, sitting alone on the bus home, I wonder if, on the eve of my interview, I might not avail myself of a little bottled self-esteem too. Having rehearsed every conceivable outcome and scenario I can think of, including those involving fire, acts of terrorism, and the sudden, debilitating loss of feeling in one’s limbs, I’m still no closer to feeling comfortable or confident about my big day. Besides, it’s transformed Colin so completely and subtly, that what could be the harm? I decide to take him up on his offer.

By 12:30 that night, Colin still hasn’t come home. If ever I needed proof that the self-tan works, this is it. However, having waited patiently for him for three and a half hours, I’m now reaching a fever pitch of anxiety about
sleep deprivation and the importance of getting an early night. So, in a fit of hysteria and more determined than ever to appear for my interview as a sun-kissed goddess, I decide to raid Colin’s bathroom shelf myself. After all, I hardly need an instruction manual and personal assistant to help me slap on a little fake tan.

Colin’s shelf in the bathroom is stacked with more beauty products than Ria’s and mine combined. It’s not easy being a gay man. In the cut-throat world of Soho bars and one-night stands, only the youngest and fittest survive. There are toners, moisturizers, blemish sticks, foundation, cover-up crayons, and pot after pot of anti-ageing creams, along with all the normal male grooming products of shaving creams, deodorants, and a stunning, completely comprehensive range of after shaves and colognes that he arranges in alphabetical order, from Armani to YSL along the bathroom window ledge. It takes me a while to find what I’m looking for but eventually I discover the magical bottle of self-tanning lotion, tucked away behind an extra-large bottle of Regain shampoo.

I sit down on the side of the tub to read the instructions.

‘
First prepare skin with exfoliating scrub and moisture-surge skin balm
.’

I search again through Colin’s massive collection of lotions and potions; they’re nowhere to be found. Typical. You buy one product and they always make it sound as if you need to buy ten more. Well, if Colin has achieved
such stunning results without them, so can I. I move on to the next section.

‘
Then apply tanning lotion in smooth, even strokes, one limb at a time to prevent streaking. The use of plastic gloves is highly recommended
.’

Plastic gloves? I look around the bathroom. Apart from a pair of old yellow Marigolds crumpled in a heap by the bathroom cleanser, there are no other gloves to be seen. It’s probably not that big a deal. They’re most likely just being overly cautious in case someone suffers from some strange allergy. Besides, I can always wash it off.

‘
Avoid contact with all fabrics and surfaces until completely dry. Formulation should be completely dry within ten minutes
.’

Sounds easy enough. Let’s get cracking!

I strip off my clothes and begin slathering the stuff on. It looks a lot darker than I anticipated, as a matter of fact, it’s like covering myself in oily mud. I consult the bottle again.

‘
Colour will appear initially darker but will rinse off in the morning to reveal silky, smooth skin and a golden, natural looking tan
.’

Great. Right on target. I smooth some onto my face and neck and then stand, naked, in the middle of the bathroom waiting for it to dry. A half an hour later, it’s still tacky to the touch but after 45 minutes I decide that the definition of ‘dry’ can probably be stretched to include ‘not absolutely
sopping wet’. Finally, somewhere around 1:30 or two in the morning, I fall into bed and drift into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The next morning, I stumble into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and am greeted by a horrified scream. ‘My God, Louise! What have you done to yourself?’

I’d almost forgotten. ‘Don’t panic, Ria,’ I reassure her, ‘it’s this fantastic new tanning lotion. As soon as I have a shower, you’ll see. It washes off and all I’m left with is a glorious, golden glow.’

‘You look like an extra from
Quest for Fire
.’ She shakes her head sceptically. ‘And your hands, Louise, they’re orange!’

I look down; my palms are at least two shades deeper orange than the rest of my hands, obviously from slathering the lotion on without the recommended plastic gloves. The effect is disturbingly simian. My confidence is starting to wane. I put my coffee down and jam them into my pockets. ‘I’m telling you, Ria, it all washes off! Look, I’ll prove it to you.’ And I stride into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

Ten minutes later, I emerge, wet and triumphant. ‘See,’ I gloat, ‘what did I tell you? Do I look ten pounds lighter and ten years younger or what?’

She continues to stare at me in horror. ‘You’re orange,’ she says at last. ‘A kind of
stripy
orange.’

She’s starting to really annoy me. ‘Ha ha ha. Very funny, Ria.’

But she just shakes her head. ‘No, Louise. Not ha ha ha at all.’

I run into my room and stare at myself in the mirror. She’s right. My body’s covered in bizarre orange tidemarks that don’t make me look either ten pounds lighter or younger but definitely do give the impression I might easily glow in the dark. ‘Shit! What am I going to do?’ I panic. ‘Ria, what can I possibly do?’

An evil little smile creeps across her face. ‘Apply for a job in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory?’

I glare at her and then, much to my shame, start to cry. ‘I have an interview at eleven o’clock!’ I wail, two huge tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘At the Royal Opera House and they probably don’t hire orange people!’

‘OK, OK, calm down. No more jokes, I promise. Come on.’ She takes my hand and leads me back into the bathroom. After ferreting around in a wicker basket for a few minutes, she comes up clutching a giant loofa. ‘Get back in the tub,’ she orders. ‘If we’re lucky, we might be able to scrub it off.’

I’ve never been treated for radiation contamination, but I imagine that standing, naked and shivering in a tub while somebody you never,
ever
intended to have see you naked scrapes off the top three layers of your skin with a dry, rough object is all just part of the fun. Memorable as this attempt is in the humiliation stakes, it hardly puts a dent in the ginger tinge that’s masquerading as my ‘natural-looking golden tan’.

Finally we both give up. ‘Look, Louise, much as I’ve enjoyed this rare chance to indulge in some serious female bonding, I’ve got to go to work and you’ve got an interview. Face it: you’re just going to have to tough it out.’

I wrap my raw limbs carefully in a bath towel. ‘I could always reschedule. Say I got food poisoning or something.’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘It’s up to you. Though, if they’re interviewing today, they might easily find someone before they meet you. And it always looks a bit dodgy when someone can’t turn up for an interview.’

She’s right. I have to go.

To minimize the damage I wear a navy trouser suit, hiding my monkey hands in the deep pockets. The pretty red dress I’d had dry cleaned and the new pair of Kurt Geiger shoes I’d splashed out on beckon but involve far too much skin exposure. Besides, as Ria points out, red and orange don’t really mix. After buttoning my blouse right up under my chin, I’m left with only my curiously carroty face to deal with. Foundation only makes it look chalky, but luckily a thin dusting of translucent powder does wonders to tone down the neon quality of the tidemarks.

By ten to ten, I’m out of the door, heading for the bus stop, just praying I won’t be interviewed in a room with fluorescent lighting.

An hour later, I’ve been installed on a bench outside one of the private bars, waiting to be called in. Eventually
a woman in her mid-forties emerges, shaking the hand of another candidate.

‘Lovely to meet you, Portia,’ she smiles. ‘We’ll be in touch. And please, do send my love to your father!’

The girl, at least ten years younger than me and sporting a perfectly normal skin shade, lopes off down the corridor, her long blond hair swinging behind her. My heart sinks. I wish I’d called in sick with food poisoning after all.

Then the woman turns to me. ‘Louise Cassova?’

‘Canova,’ I correct her, standing and holding out my hand. ‘It’s Italian.’

‘How lovely.’ She eyes my monkey paw warily and I jam it back in my pocket. ‘Would you like to come through?’ I follow her into the empty bar. She gestures to a table and chairs by the window. ‘Please have a seat. My name is Charlotte Thorne, the Head of Human Resources. The Head of Development, Robert Brooks, will be joining us in a moment but I thought I might ask you a few questions myself.’

I nod eagerly and feel my face stretching into a petrified grin of sheer terror.

She sits down and opens the file of résumés in front of her. ‘I see you were one of the lucky ones who got away over the Easter break.’ She makes small talk while she rummages through her pile of papers. ‘Where did you go?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I couldn’t help noticing your tan. Did you go somewhere nice?’ She’s located what she was looking for and now gives me her full attention, folding her hands neatly in front of her on the table.

I freeze. Where do people who went away over Easter go? The Cayman Islands? Skiing? She sits there blinking at me. I can practically hear time slipping away while I stare blankly at her. ‘Well, no. No, I didn’t get away this time … it’s just … just … well, you know how we Italians are! A few sunny days and we’re as brown as can be!’

I laugh inanely and she smiles, launching swiftly into her standard line of attack. ‘Lucky you. So tell me, Louise, what makes you think you’d like to be part of our team here at the Royal?’

Fortunately, this
is
one of the questions I’ve prepared for. I take a deep breath. ‘Well, Charlotte, I guess the bottom line is, I’m just so passionate about the arts …’ and I go on to bludgeon her with my enthusiasm until Mr Brooks appears.

All in all, it goes better than I could’ve imagined, though, after Ms Thorne introduces me as ‘multi-cultural’, there are a few sticky moments when he insists on speaking to me in Italian (of which I’m entirely ignorant) and regales me with stories of his student adventures in Florence (where I’ve never been). But somehow my total ignorance escapes him; he’s on a mission. And, despite the fact that I giggle nervously each time he addresses me, he seems to have taken a shine to me.