Hollywood Ass. (12 page)

Screw the marker, I had to pull some black and yellow police tape across that damn line.

After walking around for a while, I found an inviting-looking bookstore and walked inside.

I passed by the old wooden counter, from where an older lady with unruly hair gave me a suspicious glance before looking down on her newspaper again. The store was beautiful, it could definitely have been a cigar room or a wine bar instead, with wooden shelves of old books reaching up to the ceiling, plush furniture and soft lighting. There was a lush, red velvet sofa placed in the middle of the main room, where I assumed customers could sit down and sample books. There was also a section only for thick, bound, leather notebooks. I scanned the shelves and after a while I found one that fit the bill, light-brown, textured leather, cream pages without lines and a silk sewed-on bookmark - it had that good leathery scent, the new-car-smell. It was exactly what I’d been looking for.

I could have stayed there longer, but I was starting to get hungry again and the hangover made me crave a proper Italian pizza. This was a country where it was fun to be hungry because of all the exciting and satisfying options.

I walked up to the old woman at the counter, who didn’t look up until I put my notebook in front of her. I don’t know if she was deliberately rude or just a complete scatterbrain since people working in (or owning) bookshops, tended to be a little on the special side of things. But then, out of the blue, a smile came to her face when she saw my purchase. Maybe it was outrageously overpriced, I hadn’t checked the price on it, or maybe she just appreciated a client with good taste. When she started punching in the amount in her old-fashioned cash register, I wished I had enough knowledge of Italian to at least start a short conversation. Not that Italians were that bad with English, but Italian just sounded sexier and more exotic.

“You’re American?” she said, in what sounded almost like a Scottish accent,
Yurr Amerrricen
.

“Yes,” I said, surprised, “How did you know?”

And here the Scottish dialect came in full flow, so grave she almost sounded like Shrek, “After working here for 15 years and meeting tourists from pretty much everywhere, I’ve become quite apt at spotting nationalities. You have the American look.”

I wondered what she meant by that, but then again the answer might not have been pleasant, so I said, “You’ve run this store for 15 years?” instead, my curiosity taking over.

“Nine. Came to Rome on a whim. Blind youth, you know. Fell in love with the city and a man, got married, settled and here I am.” She had a weird gap between her front teeth which made her smile kind of goofy-looking.

“I can see how you fall in love in this city.” I replied, but like she wasn’t listening, she blurted out:

“But of course I’ve divorced that cheating, no-good, gel-haired
arrrssehole
, by now.”

Sensing the conversation might have taken a turn for the negative and I would end up listening to anecdotes about her husband and all the things wrong with (Italian) men, I thanked the lady. But just as I was going to say goodbye, I thought of something, “What recommendation could you give a man on his last day in Rome? Where should I go? What do I need to see? Most of the tourist stuff I’ve done already.”

“There’s a nice wine bar just around the corner. Really old place too, 250 years old or something. Buy a pizza, have a glass of wine, enjoy the rain smattering on the pavement outside. That’s what I would do. If I wasn’t working.”

She gave me brief directions and it turned out I had walked past it several times without knowing it was there.

I said thanks and goodbye and left the divorced and bohemian lady alone with her beautiful books.

The rest of the time before the flight I spent eating a delicious multi-cheese pizza, drinking coke (my head was not yet ready for wine) and jotting in my new notebook. I noticed that getting down thoughts and problems on paper didn’t eliminate them, but only made the more tangible.

Conclusion: I was in some way or other in love with
B
.

***

We arrived to a lukewarm May evening in New York City. I was so tired it felt like my eyes were about to roll out of their sockets and
B
was nervous and irritated. We hadn’t talked much throughout the flight, mostly slept, read and used our digital devices, I had read Hugh Johnson’s yearly wine book on my Kindle, she had watched the latest Woody Allen movie on her iPad. She was obviously tense about seeing her husband again, especially since this was kind of a surprise visit and he absolutely despised surprises and disturbances while he was working.

As we were rolling our luggage out of the terminal, I looked over at
B
who was alarmingly quiet. She had a distant look on her face, which I knew was her worrying pose.

“What's up?” I asked her.

“What do you think?”
B
snapped, “Guilt is what's up - I'm up to my throat in it.”

With
B
, the emotional roller coaster never took a break. I understood her feelings, but at the same time I was worried that she had finally crossed the line and done something insanely stupid with Matteo. Images of a steamy lunch date in bed flashed in front of my eyes.

“I feel horrible about how I’ve behaved towards
A
. I don’t know why I wanted to surprise him while he’s working, he hates surprises.” I had of course told her this as soon as she came up with the New York idea, but she didn’t listen. And it felt pointless to say
I told you so
.

“So why don’t you text him to say we’re on the way?” I offered, the obvious solution.

“No,
you
text him. I feel like the first time we really talk should be face to face. I bet he’s still angry.”

I couldn’t grasp her logic, but I’d always had problems with that - it was one of the major ways we were different. I started typing. I was actually worried A would be angry with me as well, since I hadn’t been in touch as much as I had promised. Other things had come in the way; like my own feelings. And to be fair, he hadn’t tried to contact me either - an obvious sign that something was wrong.

Even though I knew things weren’t exactly peachy,
A
’s reply still shocked me: “You’re coming here now? Wow. Now is NOT a good time. I need to focus. Please sort out another hotel, I can’t have any more drama right now.”

When I told
B
this her jaw looked like it was about to unhinge itself from her face. The feeling of guilt quickly vanished, replaced by anger.

“Is he serious? Is this what our marriage has become?” She asked me.

There were two routes from that point: agreeing with her or playing the middleman. Part of me wanted to urge her on, tell her that her husband was an inconsiderate asshole, and part of me knew it was my duty to balance out the situation. In the end, I decided what was most important right now was keeping
B
cool.

“You just went to Rome without telling him and then spent a night in another man’s apartment, maybe you can call it even?” I said, harshly.

“Whatever,” she snorted. “This is exactly why I’m losing hope in our relationship, work always comes before me. Or in this case probably other women.”

I couldn’t really say anything to
A
’s defense, because work had a tendency to come before anything. Cars second, wife possibly third. But what could I do but call our booking agent and ask her to get us a room in a different hotel?

***

Reputation brings reservations, because we managed to get a nice suite at the Waldorf-Astoria on extremely short notice. The suite came equipped with a huge terrace, overlooking Central Park and two massive bedrooms. On the living room table there was a bottle of champagne, some luxury chocolate and a handwritten note saying:
Whatever you need, just call for it
, signed with a signature and a mobile number from one of the hotel managers. This was usual treatment for
B
, of course, and she stopped smiling about it a long time ago.

Upon entering my room, I looked at the fat and luscious bed and thought I would like to lay down in it and sleep for three days. But
B
was upset and I needed to be on my game, so instead I put down my bag, took a quick shower and headed out on the terrace, where she was already sitting, drinking a glass of Moet Chandon and looking out over the park with a sad look on her face.

“You know what?”
B
said, as I entered her view, “My mother is in town, she just sent me a text that she met Alison at Nobu and Alison told her I’m in New York. Just my luck.”

It’s funny how she blamed Alison for telling her mother, when all mother Katherine needed to do was to follow
B’s
twitter account. Meaning pretty much everybody knew she was in New York.

“Now I’m forced to meet her for lunch. Yippie, lucky me! Life’s fucking great.”
B
said, in a morose tone.

“That sucks.” I said, because I had a feeling “lunch” would include me. It seemed like
B
never went anywhere without me these days. Not that I usually complained about it.

“Yeah, it does. Can you please join us? I can’t deal with her alone, not like this, not after making a fool out of myself.”
B
gave me the puppy-eyed look she knew I couldn’t say no to.

“Sure. I’ll buy some ear plugs.”

“You’re my rock, Darryl. What would I do without you? Come join me, have a glass of champagne.”

She poured me glass while I pondered the question, “What
would
she do without me?”

***

New York-sounds greeted me the morning after. Cars honking, people shouting, the humdrum noise of millions of feet against the pavement. People were on the way somewhere, all the time. I had always liked the city and its magical pulse, but for some reason I thought it was too chaotic for me to live there for extended periods of time. I needed my oasis of quiet sometimes and I doubted I would find it in the Apple.

One thing I would find in New York though was my hacker friend Cesar, and I had arranged for us to meet for dinner, which I looked forward to as a nice break from constantly being around
B
. Don’t get me wrong, I still had feelings for her, it was actually the biggest reason I needed a break. It was becoming tiresome to be so emotionally bound to such an emotionally bound person, if you know what I mean.

B
was in her bedroom, sleeping with her silk Cavalli eye-cover shielding her from the morning light. I stood there looking at her for a while, wondering whether I would ever lose the urge to kiss her. It had implanted itself in my brain like a virus and no matter how hard I tried to shake it or numb it, it stuck to me.

Besides thinking about how my feelings changed things, I was also nervous about the lunch with her mother. When they met it was always like opening a can of worms and I don’t think anyone of us honestly looked forward to it. But
B
had never been able to say no to her mother and the easiest thing to do was just to go along with it and pray it would be relatively painless.

This time, my feeling was, it would be far from it.

***

Katherine thought it was stylish to leave people waiting, so
B
and I had to sit and wait at Nello's for twenty minutes before she showed up in an elegant grey business suit, massive Ferragamo glasses and amber-colored hair. Her face was stretched like plastic film from all her operations and Botox injections and whatever natural features she’d had last time, were now all wiped out. She had become a wax doll gone wrong and an instant feeling of sadness swept over me as soon as she entered the restaurant.

“Hi Doll!” she said, and kissed
B
on the cheek. Then she took a step back, looked her over and said, “You've gained weight?”

I saw
B
’s face drop and felt so sorry for her that I wanted to throw my water glass in Katherine’s face. No superstar status or ego armor could protect you from your mother’s harmful comments.

Katherine almost threw her coat on a young male waiter, sat down and then turned to me, “And how are you, Darryl? Handsome as ever with that dark, well-proportioned face. You rarely see a man with a few extra pounds who look that good.”

Weight was apparently the topic of the day and it seemed like Katherine had lost most of hers. I couldn’t remember being able to see her collarbones as clearly before. She was a victim of the Hollywood ideal, where age could be stopped in its tracks if only you had the money and the mindset to.

“I'm great,” I said, unsure if I should take Katherine's remark as a compliment. I had never been slim Jim, but I wasn’t really chubby in a bad way. Some people could pull off a few extra pounds and I put myself in that category.

Katherine opened the menu and scanned the choices, while
B
seemed lost in thought, horribly uncomfortable already and probably regretting her decision to come. Katherine looked up from her menu and said, “You know I called your husband the other day and he said you were in Rome? What were you doing there? He told me you had a huge fight after that miserable carpet fiasco.”

The introduction had ended and round two of the verbal boxing could start. So far,
B
was taking all the punches.

“Was it so strange that I wanted to take off after what happened? I felt sick, but he still forced me to go to that dreadful event. But of course you won’t listen to that, because you always take his side. I’m a grown-up, if I want to go to Rome, I don’t need anyone’s permission.”

“But you’re married! You can’t just do what you want all the time! You have a status to maintain, a reputation, some dignity. But maybe you don’t care about these things?” Katherine was on fire, it seemed like she had no other interest than verbally attacking her daughter. Like always, I wanted to protect
B
, but here I felt like there was nothing I could do.