Vee (3 page)

“If I have too much, it’ll give me
a headache in the morning.”

“Should I make sure you’re tipsy?”
Vee asks, her hand sliding over my thigh. “Then I can take you
home?” There’s some sort of announcement on stage, but my attention
has focused on the heat of her hand as it inches over my
stocking-clad flesh, slipping under the hem of my skirt. She winks
at me, squeezing my leg before her hand retreats.

A tinkle of piano keys cuts
through the light chatter in the room, and I glance up at the
stage. A young man--no, a pair of young men--have come onstage,
both dressed in classic tuxedos. The pianist is dark-haired, with
an easy grin.
Très
charmant
. The singer isn’t smiling, but he
looks out over the audience with confidence, and straightens his
bow tie as he steps up to the mic. His blond hair is slicked back
in an old-fashioned coif, different from the pianist, whose hair
curls over his collar.

“Bienvenue, mesdames et
messieurs
,” the singer says, his speaking
voice a lovely deep tenor. I miss his next words, but then the
pianist chides him, looking amused, and the singer grins at the
crowd. “
Pardon
,”
he says awkwardly. “I am too used to French crowds.”

“He’s kinda cute,” Vee whispers to
me. “If I liked men.”

“Thank you for having us here,” he
says in heavily accented English. “We hope to
impressioner
--impress you.” He
glances back at the pianist, a wordless communication passing
between them, and the pianist nods and begins.

It takes me a few bars to
recognize the song, but it’s been a long time since I’d last
heard
À Paris
, a
song made famous by Yves Montand. Vee sits forward in her seat, and
as the singer begins, I find myself entranced.

I barely notice my dinner being put down in front of
me, not until Vee gently nudges me. We eat and listen, and the pair
perform several classics--Montand, Aznavour, and Brel. After a
fourth song, one that I don’t recognize, the singer steps back from
the microphone, taking a sip from a glass of water. The pianist
begins a familiar melody, and I smile. Vee claps her hands with
delight, and the pianist shoots her a grin.

We’d only just watched Casablanca the other night.
Vee had loved it just as much as I did the first time.

“Ingrid Bergman is gorgeous, isn’t
she?” Vee had been snuggled up against me, her head on my
shoulder.

“Absolutely.” We’d watched as
Bergman listened to that classic, special song, and I’d held my
breath when Bogart’s character stormed down to the piano and saw
her for the first time.

Vee shifts her chair until she’s right next to me,
and leans her head on my shoulder. My breath hitches.

“I’m glad we came,” she whispers
to me, barely audible over the piano. I turn my head and press a
gentle kiss on her blue hair. It could look almost maternal, given
our age difference, but I’m feeling anything but
maternal.

From the corner of my eye I see movement on the
stage, and when I glance over, the singer has returned to the
mic.

“This next song is one of my
favourites,” he says, his English still halting, his gaze drifting
over to the pianist, who gives him a soft smile.
“
Je ne regrette rien
.”

I’ve only ever heard women sing this song, Édith
Piaf’s masterpiece, and to hear a man sing it is strange, but it
suits his voice, the haunting, sad quality of the music. He flashes
another glance back to the pianist, and the tension between them,
an awareness of need, solidifies my earlier hunch. There’s more to
them than just music.

Vee’s hand settles on my thigh again and I can’t
focus on anything else. The music becomes a backdrop to her touch,
her fingers feathering over my stockings, along the hem of my skirt
as she’d done before. Her breath dances on my skin, seeming to flow
down over my collar bone to caress the top of my cleavage. She
knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I startle at the applause, and Vee sits up. We join
in and I raise my gaze to the musicians taking their bows. They
linger as long as the applause does, but finally retreat
backstage.

The waiter comes by, and I ask for the check. Vee
chuckles.

“Feeling homesick?” she teases. I
catch her hand, bringing it to my lips, kissing her fingers with
their black lacquered nails.

“You know what you do to me,” I
reply.

“Let’s go back to mine,” Vee
suggests. “My roommate’s away, so we’ll have some
privacy.”

I grin. I’ve wanted to see her place, had a
curiosity about how she lives when we’re not together, and this is
the first time she’s invited me over. Usually she’s reluctant to
show me the apartment she shares, and I’ve wondered why. She’s
shrugged it off as her roommate not liking to have anyone over, or
by saying that she prefers my place, small though it is.

We head out and catch the subway to the Upper West
Side--actually, more like Harlem. Vee’s apartment is a gloomy
basement flat in a brownstone. The window in the tiny living room
looks out onto the sidewalk. She flicks on the light and dispels
some of the gloom, but it’s dark outside and the light is weak in
comparison.

“Excuse the kitchen,” Vee says,
closing the door on the tiny galley kitchen. I can just see the
dishes piled in the sink. There are a few dishes on the coffee
table too, and Vee sighs.

“Can’t live with her, can’t kill
her,” she mutters. She takes my hand, leading me to one of two
doors. “My room’s nicer.”

The first thing I notice is the wall of books.
Stacked every which way in order to leave no space wasted, the wall
opposite her low bed is filled with books.

Vee flops down on the dark coverlet. “I think I
spend most of my wages at my job.” She laughs.

“I would too,” I admit. Instead of
scanning the titles as I would usually do, I sit down next to her.
The wall behind her bed is covered in posters, and there’s a
dresser tucked into the space between the door and the closet.
Every inch of space is utilized.

“Cosy, isn’t it?” Vee
says.

“I like it.” And I do, even though
it is small enough to almost be claustrophobic.

“I spend a lot of time in here,”
she says. “My roomie likes to hog the TV, and I get so tired of
reality shows.” She tugs at my arm and I sprawl next to her on the
bed. On the ceiling is another poster--Debbie Harry. I
grin.

“So this is your obsession with
Heart of Glass?”

“Yup. But she’s not as pretty as
you.” Vee rises on her elbow and leans over me. Some of her hair
has come loose from its pins and a lock brushes my cheek. Her lips
hover over mine and I lift my head, meeting her partway. This is
what I’ve needed all night, more than the jazz, more than the good
food. Vee.

Her hand trails over the buttons of my blouse and I
suck in a breath as she begins to undo them, slowly, her fingers
teasing my bared skin.

“Let’s go back to the Birdland
this weekend,” she says between kisses, “but we need to take care
of this before we go, not after.”

“We’ll concentrate better,” I
agree.

“Friday then?” Her knee presses
between my thighs and I forget everything but her.

Birdland
(II)

It’s hard to resist Vee when she gets an idea, an
urge to do something. She fidgets, paces, and I can hear the creak
of the parquet in the hall, though I am trying to work in my
office. I have an article due in a couple of days, but it’s barely
half done.

“It’s Friday night,” Vee says,
coming to the door of my office, her eyes pleading with me from
under her fringe of blue hair. “And for once I don’t have to work
tomorrow. Let’s go out, Alex.”

“I can’t, Vee. I have work.” I
want to, but my deadline looms, and I’m exhausted. Vee comes over
to my chair, pivoting it away from the computer. She’s wearing
ripped jeans tonight and my fingers go to the rent over her left
thigh, teasing her pale skin through the tear.

“But you’ve been working on it all
day.” Vee pouts, and it would be charming if I wasn’t feeling so
harried. My editor had called several times today to push for the
article to be done early. Not her usual style, but she too was busy
and overworked. Her calls hadn’t helped my
concentration.

“Vee, I can’t.” I rub my tired
eyes, feeling suddenly old. I envy Vee her energy, her persistence.
Even though she’s worked all day herself, she’s still raring to
go.

“Please, Alex?”

I look at her squarely. “I’m exhausted. I don’t
think I have it in me, not tonight.” She’s hit her second wind; I
don’t have a second wind in me.

“But it’s Friday. The best night
of the week.”

I rest my head against the back of my office chair,
looking up at her. “Did you have somewhere in mind?” I ask. Maybe I
could spare an hour or two and we could have a drink in the wannabe
Irish pub a block over. I could manage that. Barely.

“Yes!” Vee grasps my hands,
squeezing them. “The Birdland.”

Again? We’d only just been there last week. I know
Vee sees my thoughts on my face, because her grin fades.

“Why don’t we just go for a
drink?” I suggest, trying to bring her smile back. “You and me and
a dark corner table.” I could manage that, and still be able to get
a good night’s rest, and maybe another hour on this
article.

It doesn’t work.

“Remember the French singer we
saw?” Vee asks. “And the pianist? Tonight’s their last night in New
York, and I couldn’t stand it if I only saw them once.”

I see her shoulders slump and I don’t like to see
her so disheartened, not over such a little thing.

“All right,” I say, relenting.
“But tomorrow I have to spend working.”

“I’ll bring you coffee and
sandwiches,” Vee says, putting her hand over her heart. “You can
spend all day in here, I swear it.”

And so we end up at the Birdland once more. I’m in a
basic little black dress, and Vee is wearing her blue mini dress
and her knee-high combat boots. She’s put her hair back into a
braid, a surprisingly demure style, even with the blue. I’ve left
my hair loose for a change.

“You’re beautiful,” Vee says,
taking my hand, almost skipping as she walks along Ninth
Avenue.

When we arrive at the jazz club, there’s a line and
for a moment I wonder if we’ll even make it in. We do, but we’re at
the bar, not at a table. Vee turns on her stool to face the stage,
leaning her elbows on the bar.

“This is a perfect view,” she
says, “don’t you think?”

We’re close. Any closer and Vee’s toes might touch
the edge of the stage. We order a drink—wine for me, and a fancy
cocktail, a Sapphire Sin—for her. The bartender has just delivered
our drinks when the stage lights dim.

“Straight from Paris to our stage,
may I present Benoît Grenier and Daniel Marceau.”

Hearty applause fills the club and Vee and I are as
excited as the rest, Vee especially. The young men come out on
stage, acknowledging the audience with a bow and a smile. The
dark-haired one—Benoît, I think—goes to the piano, settling himself
behind the keys. The singer, Daniel, his blond hair slicked back,
his bow tie hanging loose around his neck, steps up to the
microphone. The pair exchange a glance, a nod, and a small, secret
smile.

Vee leans close to me, whispering in my ear. “Do you
think they’re in love?” She shifts her attention back to the stage,
but her hand finds mine in the gloom.

“Mesdames et messieurs,
bienvenue
—welcome to the last performance
of ours here at the Birdland,” Daniel says. There’s a groan of
disappointment that ripples through the audience, and he gives a
regretful shrug. “I’m sure we’ll be back again. It has been our
dream to play here.” Again he glances at Benoît, and I’m sure
there’s heat there between them.

Benoît leans forward to his mic. “But if you’re in
Montréal next week, we’ll be there. It’s not too far away.” He
winks, and Vee laughs. His gaze shifts to us and he smiles. A
familiar song fills the air.

Vee taps her feet to ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’,
and I’m glad we’ve come. Aside from the other night, I so rarely
see live music anymore. Without missing a beat, Vee turns to me,
mouthing the words, and for a moment it seems as if she’s singing
with a man’s low tenor. I begin to laugh, but stifle it behind my
hand, mindful of the performance. Vee turns back towards the stage,
her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. My gaze moves to
Daniel. A lock of hair has fallen over his forehead as he sings,
his blue eyes intense in the spotlight. He focuses on a point out
in the midst of the tables, and I wonder if he’s singing to someone
in particular, or no one at all.

Their second song is upbeat, and the entire set has
Vee tapping her toes. Even I can’t resist. Benoît begins playing
the Hoagy Carmichael song, ‘Mr. Music Master’, which has an
almost-music box quality to it, and he and Daniel are smiling by
the last lines.

The song ends, and Daniel turns to face Benoît,
moving towards the piano until he’s able to lean on its edge like
an old-fashioned chanteuse. Benoît nods at him and begins the next
song. I’ve never heard it before, and it isn’t one of the typical
old classics that they played last time. I straighten in my seat
and notice that Vee has leaned forward slightly, her attention
fixed on the stage. Daniel’s voice is low, almost mysterious,
enchanting. I don’t understand all the words, but I can feel the
emotion as he sings. Vee’s fingers tighten on mine, and I don’t
think she’s even realized she’s done it. If I could make this
moment last, I would. There’s nothing more perfect than this.