Love Is Strange (A Paranormal Romance) (15 page)

Gavin could see that future coming for his friend. He knew every wrinkle in that ugly fate. Yet, he could do nothing to avert it.

Rage and anger. Bewilderment, bafflement, and fury. A growing, murderous contempt for the nature of human life. He was feeling the ugly sensations in every bone in his body.

He didn’t know any word for this keen and horrible heartache. Nobody had ever told that word for him. He had no words to describe what he felt. ‘Men have feelings too, but who cares.’

“Hey,” said a voice. “Gavin Tremaine. Gavinoski. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

It was Brixie the Blogger. Brixie was fully dressed for the occasion. Brixie was in a psychedelic Pucci wrap, which looked like a skinned lizard. Under her flimsy, scarf-like dress, Brixie was unhuman. Stiff, female curves like a plastic mannequin. Botox forehead and collagen lips. The Girl of Tomorrow.

“Okay, sure, what’s on your mind, Brixie?”

“Just one question. One simple question for you. Because you were at my panel today on ‘One-Click Monetization for Fashion Blogs.’ And when I got up to speak, you walked out on me.”

“Did I?”

“You
did!
”

“I had to take a phone call. So, tell me all about it. How was your presentation?”

“My presentation was brilliant and it was fully researched with original facts and figures. I
bled
for that great presentation. It totally rocked. And now you’re saying you walked out from it, front-row center, because of some fake phone call?”

“Look, Brixie. I know you have a lot of readers on your blog. But you can’t force people to listen when you speak in public! If I had to go, I had to go! Look, I like bloggers just fine. My venture firm has a blog. Tell me all about your blog.”

“My blog? My life’s work? I am a whole fashion magazine by myself! I do the work of twenty people. Look at that stepladder over there — it’s where the models keep the cocaine.”

Gavin glanced at the nifty teak-wood stepladder that led into the sleek white hull of the LOXY yacht. Thin, bright-eyed girls had been tripping up and down that ladder in a happy stream.

A cocaine party on a fancy yacht? How hard was that to predict?

“I just did two lines of cocaine down there,” Brixie told him. “Except, it was strong. It was
really
strong. I think it was crystal meth.”

“You inhaled methedrine?” Gavin considered this statement. He was too well-bred to act shocked about drugs. People all over the world took crystal meth. Doomed people, mostly. Speed-freaks who turned into rattlesnakes. “Brixie, you should do an image search for ‘methedrine user.’ You’ll see people with gray skin and no teeth.”

“Yeah? Well, tomorrow I’ll be all over my meth high, while you will still be a preachy, hopeless square.”

“If you took meth, you should sit down and check your pulse.”

“I’m not dropping dead, Mr. Tremaine.
You
should drop dead. You don’t like me! You don’t like my blog! So what? What’s so great about
you
? Whenever you’re with some company — chances are three out of four it goes broke! You venture-capital losers — you are
useless!
You all are shutting up shop! Your Seattle tech scene is over.”

“Seattle is over? That’s ridiculous. Seattle can’t be over compared to
Los Angeles
!”

“That is the truth, live with it!”

“Even if that’s true, Brixie — why should you care?”

“Because people saw you leaving my presentation. That was an implicit criticism.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means that you dissed me, stupid! Why do I sweat blood and tears working eighty hour weeks, when rich dorks like you can queer my deal without even knowing about it? I don’t care about you! You’re some Microsoft geek creep! I don’t even
want
to care about you! I come over here to Europe, paying my own way, and you’re in my face because you got lucky once? I care about serious issues! Because I am like a passionately-committed, citizen, fashion journalist! And you are some dimwitted fat-cat who is here to get in everybody’s way! Why don’t you
die
?”

Brixie the Blogger was flaming him. Gavin had seen plenty of flame-wars on weblogs, because all weblogs had flamewars. However, Gavin had never been standing next to a real-life person, on the nicely polished hull of a beautiful boat, flaming him publicly.

Brixie wasn’t talking to him, or listening to him. Nothing like that at all. Brixie was off in her own world, flaming away like a blowtorch. She was such an Internet fiend that she had never learned any other way to behave.

Gavin knew what was happening, but he was angry anyway. “Well,” he said to Brixie, “past, present or future, the fashion business sure has some prima donnas. You’re like someone out of that Audrey Hepburn movie.
Funny Face.
”

“Speaking of the funny face of Audrey Hepburn,” said Brixie, “how about your hooker girlfriend?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I saw you two having breakfast. You gave her cash on the spot. There are pictures. I took pictures of you.”

“You took pictures of me with Farfalla Corrado?”

“I took fifteen great pictures. That took me maybe five seconds.”

“She is my translator. We have a business relationship.”

“Sure you do, pal. That’s why you two meet for breakfast, you give her cash, and then you take her shopping.”

“What are you saying here? That is blackmail! Where are your journalistic ethics?”

“Look, I’m a
blogger
, you moron! Your privacy is
so over!
Get over yourself! If you want to hire Italian escorts, you’ll just have to put up with people knowing it! You don’t like that? Sue me!”

“I don’t like that, Brixie.”

“I would
love
to see you sue me, you loser. All the dirt you tried to hide would be all over the world in ten minutes.”

Gavin drew a deep breath. He slowly counted to ten. It was the sensible thing to do, but didn’t help at all. He stared into Brixie’s deranged eyes. Her eyes were glittering with narcotic battery-charge. “Okay, look here, Brixie. You are insulting me. On purpose. You are high on drugs. Knock both of those things off. Or else, I will throw you overboard. See all that salty water down there? You will be splashing around in there. That’s my prediction.”

“I would love to see you try. My hit counts would go through the roof.”

Gavin looked around himself. The yacht did not lack for people with video.

He and Brixie seemed to be in full strategic agreement. Something snapped in Gavin’s impulse-control, and a half-blind ecstasy ensued. A heave, a scrape, a yelp and then, lots of splashing. A woman down in the sea. Yelling, drowning maybe.

Look at that. How could things like that happen to people? What a disaster.

Look at that. Other girls were jumping off the yacht. Lots of girls. Pretty girls jumping to port and starboard. Pretty girls screaming with glee as they jumped from the beautiful yacht.

Blood pulsed in Gavin’s temples. He rubbed the scraped side of his neck.

Fabio was at his side. Fabio looked crisp, cool, and collected. Fabio looked down, thoughtfully, over the side of the yacht. Then, he looked back up. “So, what happened here?”

Gavin had nothing to say.

“So,” said Fabio. “That was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

Fabio pulled off his shoes. He cast aside his yachting jacket. Since people were watching him, handsome Fabio made a little production of this effort. He waved his white shirt like a sail. Fabio had a nice tanned torso and shaved chest-hair.

Gavin coughed. “Look, man, don’t do this. When a mermaid grabs your ankle, down you go. That’s not how it’s done! You know that as well as I do!”

“Over I go, my friend.” Fabio vaulted from the rail of the boat.

Chapter Ten: Old-Fashioned Bossa Nova

This day was one of those days. A day with too many things for any woman to do. So many events going on, so many people to please and promises to keep, that Farfalla couldn’t keep up.

It was impossible. The clock would burst at the rate she was living. Yet, Farfalla was doing all of it. Every last bit. She was doing it with ease, flair, and grace. Farfalla had a sweet, loose, perfect rhythm, like a bossa nova.

The estate sale in Anacapri went beautifully.

The dead woman owned closets stuffed with Prada gear from the early 1990’s. The dead woman owned dot-com boom clothes. Dark, severe, weird, super-pricey, corporate-psychedelic outfits, in black and gray and silver. These dot-com clothes were going for peanuts. Nobody wanted to touch the relics of that haunted time.

Eliza Tremaine knew nothing about that, though. Eliza was just an innocent, young, foreign girl. So, Eliza was in an Italian auction wonderland.

Farfalla knew better, or rather, Farfalla knew worse. Farfalla’s hostess on Capri, Eleonora, was also a former television star. Just like this dead woman. Eleonora naturally took a cruel, feline interest in the awful fate of her rival. A tall, glossy, willowy Italian beauty, who had once been a TV news presenter.

This woman had died broken-hearted at age 47. In the 1990’s, she had been the living jewel of Channel Rai Due, inside every household in Italy, a goddess adored by the camera and trusted by millions. Then, her pink-slip came, and her glamour faded. Another showgirl versus the clock.

Day by miserable day, this once-svelte TV goddess had become a ghost. A washed-up female relic, a human husk, gone fat, old, ugly, bald, and lonely. Eaten up inside with alcohol and chemotherapy. A ghastly, tragic tale of sordid feminine decay. Vengeful and terrifying, and of course, deeply satisfying to her former fans. As her last days loomed, this showgirl’s glum, sordid nightmare filled the tabloids. Breakfast fare for stolid Italian housewives. “Oh look at her. So pretty once. What a dirty shame. Not like me.”

But, for Eliza Tremaine, that unknown and awful story was a bonanza. It was a brilliant stroke of luck for Eliza. It was life-changing. The dead woman’s clothes fit Eliza’s tall, scrawny build almost perfectly. The clothes were scarcely worn. Some never pulled from their plastic-wrap.

Most of all, these beautiful clothes transformed Eliza. A girl who had looked sullen and ridiculous became a woman who looked fierce.

Eliza Tremaine was a Prada Goth. A scary Goth. The kind of Goth, who could destroy an empire.

They stuffed Eliza’s loot into a new suitcase, a chunky roll-on, also owned by the dead TV star. Then, the estate auction shut down for lunch. In Capri, everyone and everything stopped for lunch.

For lunch, Farfalla sought out a nearby café — she chose a place at random. Of course, this choice was also perfect. For today, everything was perfectly perfect. It was a lovely Capri café, warm, compact and sunny. Everything in it, the awnings, the little storefronts, were just-so.

A civilized woman could live in a place like this, thought Farfalla, perching an elbow on the table. She could lazily wait for the man of her dreams to amble by, to find her, to become her One. If he never came, there would always be this pretty café.

And who else should be here, sitting in this pretty café, in a discreet corner, but Professor Milo. There she was, in an over-sized hat and discreet sunglasses, very tête-à-tête with a silver-haired, mustached gentleman. A soldier, wearing full uniform.

And what a soldier. The sturdy, ultra-dignified general had to be a NATO grandee. He had to be an ultra-high-ranking Euro-Atlantic super-diplomat military brass. He looked powerful, fantastic, even divine. A soldier so high-level that he didn’t even belong to a nation.

Farfalla found great satisfaction in seeing this. What luck to stumble over such a mystery! She had wondered why Professor Milo, a woman clearly pushing seventy, would get hot and bothered over a man. Now, Farfalla understood. Because this old man was the kind of man who could really get under the collar of a woman of seventy. He looked suave, cool, and self-contained — totally accustomed to command. He looked like he’d arrived on Capri on a private aircraft carrier.

The General’s sword-sharp eyes swept over Farfalla. He knew that he was being watched. Ogled by some feeble female civilian. He did not care for that. He did not care for her.

Farfalla dropped her eyes, and shivered.

The waiter arrived then, by more good luck. Farfalla busily ordered lunch for two. Eliza seized this opportunity to leave their café table and scamper to the restroom to play dress-up. Eliza jauntily wheeled her new bag behind her, like a three-year-old’s red wagon.

Farfalla’s phone rang. It was Babi again. “Come over to the conference center when you finish lunch,” said Babi, breezily. “I can pay you.”

“You can
pay
me?” said Farfalla, stunned.

“Yes! The Archbishop came by our event!” Babi exulted. “His Grace was the surprise guest on our panel on ‘Creative Resort Cities’.”

“That sounds like good news,” said Farfalla. She hadn’t known that Capri had an Archbishop. To have an Archbishop showing up, that seemed miraculous.

“That sounds like
good news?
’” scoffed Babi. “That is complete
victory
! There is nobody left to doubt us! When the Archbishop came to see us, the Capri government settled all our bills! Right on the spot, they paid for everything, without another word! So, come on over, and I’ll slip you some of the needful. I know that you can use it.”

What astounding good fortune, thought Farfalla. Was it astrological, was Venus in conjunction with Mars? To be paid in advance was unheard of. Yet, somehow, Farfalla felt no urge to rush across the island to hastily grab her loot. Let the money sit there!

That was very unlike herself, she realized. She could not remember the last time she hadn’t hustled for cash.

What could have happened to her? Was it something in the air here, or the water? Why did she feel so relaxed, so pleased, so useful to the world?

“Is the Archbishop a Futurist?” she said into her iPhone.

“He told us so many wise things!” Babi rejoiced. “About Capri’s spiritual heritage, and Catholic social justice — less shopping and more worship every Sunday! His Grace was the hit of that panel! Everyone was so impressed! I love him.”