“You wanted to get somewhere so badly
You had to lose yourself along the way.
You changed your name
Well that’s okay, it’s necessary
And what you leave behind you don’t miss anyway.”
– U2
_________________________
It’s Thursday evening and Jasmine is relaxing on the narrow bed in my hostel room as I change outfits for the third time. The first two I’d rejected for not being hip enough for a night out on the town in Dublin. But this time, it’s because Jasmine let it slip that she was taking me to Caruso, which at the moment, is the hottest eatery in town – nearly impossible to get a reservation – possibly because it’s owned by Max’s younger brother, but more likely that the food, by all reports, is amazing, too.
I pull on a short wool jersey body-con dress in plum with a high neck. My favorite part though is the black side panels that give me the illusion of more shape than I normally have. I come out of the bathroom to get wardrobe approval and once received, slip on my favorite pair of black ankle-high, high-heeled suede boots before grabbing a black fringed chenille blanket that I’ve been using as a wrap on chilly nights, not wanting to wear my bulky, shapeless black wool coat out to an elegant dinner.
Jasmine and I finally head downstairs, not wanting to miss our eight o’clock reservation, but on our way out, I’m stopped by the desk clerk, who hands me a small package. I thank the girl as we exit the warm lobby and climb into the hired car that’s been made available for our use this evening. The black car glides through the damp streets toward the restaurant as Jasmine inquires about my package.
“Who’s it from?” She asks as the car pulls up to a red light and gently rolls to a stop.
“Oh,” I look at the return address. “It’s from my mom. I’ll open it when I get back to the hostel.” I set the package between us on the seat, knowing that it’s some sort of birthday present, but I don’t want Jasmine to feel guilty about not knowing.
“Oh, okay.” She sighs, hoping to live vicariously through me a little, I think, but changes the subject anyway. “So how did your meeting go this morning?” I smile grateful for the neutral topic.
“It went alright. I think we’re going to get on fine.” I reply. “He seems to be pretty laid back, for being the head of the department and all. I’m going to do my internship at the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so I get to go and meet the museum’s head curator tomorrow morning. He thought with my focus on Twentieth Century art that IMMA would be a better fit than the older collection that’s housed at the University. And I still have to go in soon to finalize my class schedule and he said something about having to get a doctor’s check-up to make sure I’m not diseased…” I giggle.
“Is that what he said?” She laughs along with me.
“No, not really.” I sigh once the laughter finally dies down a little. “And it’s only because somehow I got out of it when I got in at NYU. I should have had a tetanus booster like five years ago. But I hate shots and would really do just about anything to get out of them.”
“Oh.” Jasmine sympathizes. “I have to get them all the time when on tour…going into third-world countries and all.”
“And now you know the real reason why I was always okay being the third-string PA! I was never asked to go on the international tours – I got to stay in the office while y’all were getting the big needle up the backside!” We giggle like schoolgirls again as the car creeps through the dark streets, finally pulling up to the front façade of Caruso with a lurch. The driver puts the car into park, hops out and opens the curbside door for us, first helping Jasmine out of the back seat then me, as I slide along the seat to the open door. He says something quietly to her as she laces her arm through mine and leads me to the restaurant’s main door.
“The spicy chicken linguine is amazing,” she coos in my ear as Jasmine opens the door and the sounds of the restaurant waft out onto the sidewalk. “And you absolutely must save room for the homemade vanilla bean gelato. It’s worth every single calorie.”
“Yes ma’am!” I smile as we step fully into the warm restaurant. Jasmine greets the hostess, whom she seems to know very well, and we’re led to a prime table in the low-lit restaurant. I take a seat and immediately our server greets us. His name is Gregg and he lets it slip that Jasmine comes in at least twice a week, which explains the familiarity of everyone in the place.
“Have ya ever seen that American show Cheers?” Gregg winds up.
“I have,” I confirm with a smile.
“Yes well, that one there would be referred to as ‘Norm’ around this place!” He winks at me, clearly flirting before turning to Jasmine. “So, y’gonna have your usual there, ‘Norm’?”
“Ha ha.” She shakes her head, only mildly annoyed to be referred to as such. “And yes. I want my usual.”
“Alright then, how about you, luv? What are you drinking tonight?” Gregg crouches on his haunches and lays his hands on the edge of the table, bringing himself to my eye level while his ordering pad rests next to him on the highly polished dark teak wood. I decide, secretly in honor of my birthday, to go totally old school and request a champagne cocktail. He commends my choice with a flirty wink and adds it to his list before sauntering off to fetch us drinks.
“Wow!” Jasmine giggles. “Gregg’s a flirt, but he usually waits until after the salad before he gets confident enough to try it on with a new girl!”
“Oh good lord,” I roll my eyes good-naturedly. “It’s only because I’m American. American fresh meat.”
“Perhaps,” Jasmine chuckles along with me. “But still, we haven’t talked about this since you’ve been here, but you look amazing! What the hell have you been doing?”
“Well, I mean, I was on the liquor and cigarettes diet in New York.” I reply and pour myself a glass of water from the carafe on the table, taking a sip before continuing. “I couldn’t afford to eat much so I had to prioritize!” Jasmine smiles, but there is a little sadness in it as well as I reminisce.
“That’s not particularly healthy, you know.” She points out.
“Yes, mum,” I grumble. “I know. But on a positive note, I stopped smoking three months ago and now I can finally get into Jean-Paul Gaultier sample sizes!”
“You really didn’t eat while you were in New York?” She asks seriously. I look at her oddly.
“Well, of course I did.” I reply as the drinks arrive. Jasmine nods at Gregg who saunters off, giving us a few more minutes while I continue, undeterred, deflecting and making light of the very real food insecurity I was dealing with while living in Manhattan. “Just not to the level that I did when I lived at home, you know? I wasn’t doing the three meals plus ten snacks thing when someone else is fitting the grocery bill. When you’re on a strict budget, you eat what’s cheap. And in New York, what’s cheap is fruit and vegetables. And then, you’re so busy running from job-to-job that you don’t have much time to eat so you’re slamming down a Jamba Juice or something in-between gigs.” I explain as I lift the champagne flute to my lips and take in the cocktail, the bubbles tickling my nose.
Jasmine listens intently as she sips her martini and I continue to open up slowly but surely about my time in New York. She nods in the appropriate places and asks questions of clarification without prying into the more personal things that I’m not yet ready to talk about. Gregg finally comes back to take our orders and flirts a little more as I order the Dublin Bay Prawns, suddenly having a positively ravenous craving for something locally sourced. Jasmine orders us each another cocktail and an appetizer before Gregg saunters to his side station to ring in our order.
“So you were like on a juice fast the entire time?!” Jasmine asks again, flabbergasted.
“Well, no. Not totally” I reply. “I mean I’d have other stuff, but between money and time, it’s just not the most important thing. Though we did have this third roommate for a little while who worked at Godiva on Fifth Avenue.” I smile remembering. “She and I would walk home from work together pretty much every day. So you know Godiva’s snooty and any of the chocolate-dipped strawberries, you know, the ones as large as a small child?” I start to explain.
“Oh god, yeah,” Jasmine interjects. “I love those things!”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Well, any of the strawberries that weren’t dipped perfectly or ones that didn’t sell by closing time, they’d send home with the employees. So the roommate would show up with one of those 36-count boxes full of them! We’d eat them on our way home. Up through the park, like the posh girls we really were!” I giggle. “And that would be dinner. Chocolate-dipped strawberries, I always liked that.”
“Yes, I can see why.” Jasmine smiles, as a nice-looking gentleman approaches our table. As I get a closer look, he starts to seem terribly familiar.
“Good Evening, Ladies!” The man greets us both before turning to Jasmine. “Sweetheart, you’re here so much, I think I need to clear a room for you in the back to sleep in!” Jasmine chuckles as she stands and hugs the man warmly.
“Robert!” She admonishes. “I’m not here that much…” He looks at me and winks.
“Enough to know all of my staff by name, their birthdays and children’s names!” He chuckles. “I should put you on payroll.” Jasmine smiles and winds up for the big finish.
“I already am, darling, don’t you know?” Robert chuckles along with her and they chat for a minute more before Jasmine recalls that I’m with her this evening. “Robert, I’d like you to meet one of my oldest friends, Katherine Jensen. She’s just moved here.”
“Well, hello there, Katherine Jensen.” The man smiles and shakes my hand. “I’m Robert. Anything you need, you let me know.”
“Thank you.” I smile as another member of the wait staff comes up to murmur something in Robert’s ear.
“I’ll be back to check on you girls in a bit. I’ve got to go take care of a troublemaker.” He winks at Jasmine, clearly an inside joke. “Want me to send him over?” Robert asks her.
“Nah, let him bother someone else tonight. I get to see him enough as it is!” She replies dryly as I try to follow along. Is she talking about who I think she’s talking about?
“Will do,” Robert replies just before I hear the most distinctive voice on the planet right above my head.
“Jasmine! What are you doing here?! You told me you were going to Paris for the weekend!” I look back up and over my shoulder as none other than Max, the lead singer of Omicron, peers over the top of the elevated back of our banquette. His sudden presence makes my brain immediately jump to a hundred-eighty-five miles per hour though through years of working with a rockstar of my very own, I immediately school my features so as not to display the barrage of thoughts racing at breakneck speed through my head.
“Hello Max,” Jasmine sighs audibly, like a kid caught skipping class by an overzealous hall monitor. “I’m having dinner. And I told you I was leaving town so you wouldn’t bother me on my weekend off!” She gives me the little secret smile she and I used to share when we were over dealing with the silly rockstar shit with our previous employer.
“Well, what the hell?” Max says with a pout. He seems to genuinely be a little hurt and clearly doesn’t know Jasmine well enough yet to know that his leg is being pulled from here to Los Angeles and back. Jasmine watches him carefully, waiting for the moment that he finally notices that she’s not alone. Perhaps secretly hoping that he doesn’t and we can return to our meal in peace. But her secret prayer is not answered when he finally does, a full thirty seconds later. Max’s bright blue eyes light up as he decides to turn his attention to the aforementioned American fresh meat. And I nearly get mental whiplash as his mouth takes off at the same speed as my brain had mere moments ago; “You’ve brought a friend, Jasmine! Who are you? What are you? Where have you come from? You both should come over here so I can talk to you properly. Bring your drinks. Who’s your server? Have you ordered yet?”
“Good Lord, Max!” Jasmine shakes her head but nods to me to grab my drink as we get up to go around to where he sits, having been summoned by the King himself. “Give a girl a minute, will ya?!”
Jasmine leans into my ear before we walk around the section to where he sits. She does not need to tell me how to behave in front of a celebrity, she knows me well enough to know that I don’t freak out or even generally become tongue-tied. But she does offer a warning, of sorts.
“He’s remarkably quick and he’s an enormous, ridiculously stupid flirt and he will do everything in his power to try to throw you totally off-balance just to see how you’ll handle it. But he’s also sweet, even if he does act like a rambunctious kid most of the time. And you’ll probably want to mother him within about forty-five seconds of talking to him.” Jasmine grabs my hand and gently pulls me with her to meet her boss.
“Well, hello again there, New York.” Grant smiles, sipping his whiskey, nonchalant, as Max looks at him sideways, clearly unnerved that his best friend beat him to the punch to his latest discovery of the female sort.
“Wait. You know each other?” Max asks as he pushes Grant over a spot in the booth to make room for one of us on each side of them. He pats the seat and Jasmine gives me a little nudge, putting me next to the flirt in question as she settles herself at the opposite end, next to Grant. Gregg sees where we’ve moved to and delivers our appetizer of fresh oysters to our new table, making Max’s eyes light up and immediately dig into our food as Jasmine rolls her eyes and catches Gregg by the sleeve before he can get too far off. Gregg smiles and nods knowing that we’ll need at least one more order of the oysters since Max will single-handedly eat this order all by his lonesome.
“Jasmine introduced us the other night, man.” Grant responds to his friend as he smiles at me, clearly not recalling my name. I cock my head only slightly, but belie nothing of his faux pas and take a sip of my cocktail as Grant continues his dissertation of my background. “From New York, but moved here to study art history at Trinity.” I smirk slightly, like the Mona Lisa, genuinely impressed that he remembered even this much considering how much we’d all had to drink when we met the other night.
“Oh? You’d rather live here than New York?” Max asks, studying my face intently, nearly to the point where I feel like he’s trying to pry directly into my mind. I almost feel the urge to squirm under his unwavering, direct gaze before he suddenly backs off to add contemplatively, “I love New York.”
“Well, you know,” I begin, “Someone had to volunteer to come back over here to help rebuild the population. After that mass exodus.” I wink at Jasmine and she knows that I will be just fine holding this one off should it become necessary. The others finish off the last of the first plate of oysters at record speed as Max chuckles at my response.
“Max,” Jasmine chimes in, formal introduction time finally at hand. “This is Katherine. She and I used to work together in Minneapolis a few years ago.”
“Oh?” Max looks at me. He’s clearly intrigued and certainly has heard Jasmine’s stories as well. “You worked for him, too?”
“Yeah.” I reply simply, but not elaborating as Gregg comes to my rescue dropping off a second plate of oysters in front of me with a flirty wink. I don’t notice that Max, staking an apparent claim on me already, gives the waiter a little side-eye at his gesture. Before Max realizes that there’s more food on the table for him to stake his claim upon, I pick up the wedges of lemon and squirt their contents all over the oysters before grabbing the first one, quickly tipping back the shell and letting the oyster slide down my throat. Max’s gaze returns to my face as he watches me suck down this oyster like a pro and while I try to ignore him, that intense, probing feeling returns, making my skin heat notably and tingle. When I can’t stand the feeling anymore, I glance over at him to see his eyebrow raised, seemingly in challenge, daring me to play the same game as he. I don’t take the bait, at least not yet, but instead simply offer the plate to the others. Grant and Jasmine decline and begin to chat quietly amongst themselves, bored with whatever seems to be happening between Max and I already.
I shrug and reach for my second oyster, this time adding a little of the horseradish crème fraîche then devour it like a champ, before elaborating further about my relationship with Jasmine to the rockstar sitting next to me.
“Jasmine taught me everything I know about dealing with men like you.” I say slyly, deciding to play and test out my own skills as a master flirt as the third champagne cocktail arrives and I start to feel it fully rear through my bloodstream. And it should be known to one and all, that the champagne makes me far bolder than I’d ever be otherwise as I render Max speechless for a full thirty seconds.
“Men like me?” Max asks as he takes a sip of what I’m guessing is vodka, since I can’t imagine that he’s much of an iced-water man on a night out without the wife.
“Yep.” I smile cheeky. “You know, pissy, spoiled…pop-tarts.”
“Pop-tarts?” Max laughs fully, loud enough to stop the low conversation between Grant and Jasmine. “Did you hear that?” He looks at his friend, pulling him back into our conversation. “Pop-tart! I am absolutely stealing that.” Grant looks at me, and smiles like a teacher, proud of his student. Apparently, I’m holding my own.
“So, Luv,” Grant addresses me, changing the subject while his buddy contemplates just how he’s going to use the new phrase I’ve blessed him with. “Jasmine here says you’ve gotten all registered for classes?”
“Almost.” I smile. I have to test out of a couple of things, since I took a bunch of gen ed classes stateside and I’m trying to cover my ass while the university decides whether or not that they’ll accept the credits I’ve already earned. And I need to get books and such. Apparently, I also have to take Irish?” I shrug as the boys groan audibly, perhaps reminiscing about their own experience in perpetuating a virtually dead language. “I’m kind of looking forward to it, really. It’ll be like talking in code when I go back stateside. I can insult the hell out of people and they’ll have no fucking clue what I’m saying!” I smile then offer the last oyster to Max, who readily accepts. The table chuckles as a busser comes to remove the empty plates before Greg arrives to set down the salad course. The roasted beet with goat cheese had been recommended and I nearly moan as the first bite hits my tongue – it’s delicious. But my very vocal reaction has Max eyeing me and my plate, wondering what the fuss is all about. I offer to share and his eyes light up as Jasmine rolls her eyes a little, though there’s mirth behind the gesture as she knows that she’s about to lose her friend to her charming boss.
We continue to chat throughout dinner, the boys bombarding me with questions about growing up in Minneapolis, my time in New York and everything in-between. I am pretty sure that by the time Gregg comes to inquire about dessert that I have told them absolutely everything about me. With one exception, today is my birthday. Though, to be honest, I am having so much fun that I’d actually forgotten about it. Until an alcohol-fuelled Jasmine, who has somehow managed to steer the table into a surprisingly heated discussion about horoscopes, and whether or not they’re total bullshit, finally asks me point-blank.
“Katherine. So you’re one of those scary Scorpio girls, but wait, wait…isn’t that like October-November people?”
“Yes.” I reply to Jasmine and thank Gregg as he sets down a cappuccino in front of me. The other three are still fully on the liquor train, but since I have an introduction by Professor Stephens with the curator of the national modern art museum first thing in the morning (I’ll be assisting her for at least the first semester of my studies at school), I really probably shouldn’t still be drunk when I meet her.
“So wait,” Jasmine tries to clear the haze of liquor, which has clearly taken over. “It’s November now…don’t tell me I missed your birthday!”
“Um,” I begin. “No. You didn’t.”
“But isn’t Scorpio done like tomorrow?” She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the alcohol-fuelled cobwebs that have covered her brain throughout the evening.
“Yes.” I reply quietly and feel my tummy riot a little, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation and full scrutiny of my admission. When it finally hits Jasmine, just like the old saying; ‘dawn breaks over Marblehead’, she’s fully there.
“Oh. My. God!” She exclaims. “Today?! It’s today! Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“Because it really isn’t a big deal.” I reply simply as everyone looks at me incredulously.
“It’s a big deal.” Jasmine says, sobering a little. “Twenty-five, if I remember correctly, right?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “But honestly. I’m having fun regardless. And that’s why it’s not a big deal.” I am rescued from having to further defend my position by Gregg who sets down a scoop of the vanilla bean gelato in front of me. Or I hope so as Max pipes in, demanding with a chuckle for a couple of pieces of the chocolate cake. He looks at me, drunkenly smug as I look at him sideways and he announces to Gregg that it’s my birthday. Gregg wishes me glad tidings and I thank him a little grudgingly as I light in on Max a little.
“You know, I really don’t need the whole of Dublin singing happy birthday. I’m really alright with this all staying a little low-key.”
“Yes well, it’s too late now. And for the record, the cake is delicious. They call it the supermodel’s best friend!”
“Do I even want to know why?” I roll my eyes at him as he takes another gulp of his vodka. “And approximately how many miles will I have to put in tomorrow to work it off?”
“Oh, there are far better things you can do to work off something so delicious, luv.” Max snickers and leers openly before he leans closer, inching his way nearer to me, testing to see when and where I will draw the line. And I can only acknowledge fully that Jasmine wasn’t kidding, he really is a ridiculously persistent flirt.
“In your better dreams, Pop-tart.” I reply, trying to hide my unease, which is growing by the second and pass the gelato off to Jasmine, who raises an eyebrow as she takes in the scene. Max is most definitely invading my personal space now as his lips close into my ear and his hot breath fans my neck as his voice rumbles just barely over the music, which is not horribly loud given the time of night. I’m trying not to let the shivers he is sending shooting through my spine be seen by any of my companions, but most of all by this super-flirty Irishman sitting next to me, for I know that if I belie my position of utterly shutting him down completely, even the tiniest bit, he will pounce like a lion on a gazelle and I will be done for.
But fuck, does he smell good…
“What was that about my better dreams, baby?” He asks right against my ear under the music and only loud enough for me to hear before he nudges his nose behind my ear to deliberately sniff my hair and I’ll be damned if it isn’t the single sexiest thing anyone has ever done to me. I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to just let the man have his way with me, and decide to fight fire with fire and shut him down immediately before I get into real trouble.
“Ask your wife. I would think she’d be well acquainted with them by now.”
I repay his treatment in the same fashion, letting my lips brush lightly against the edge of his ear and I know I’ve got him as he shifts ever-so-slightly in his seat while I look over to see both Grant and Jasmine taking in the spectacle that seems to be playing out in the booth. I give Jasmine a little wink, letting her know that I’ve got it under control for the moment and she nods slightly before pulling Grant fully back into their conversation.
But I’ve utterly underestimated my new friend as he retaliates by resting a strong hand just above my knee, his long fingers brushing against the sensitive spot behind the joint and I try not to react at all as Gregg returns with two of the biggest pieces of chocolate cake I’ve ever seen.
I immediately pick up my fork and dig in, anxious for something else to occupy my brain for a moment, while I formulate my next move. Because while I thought I was quite good at this game, I have clearly miscalculated the level of the playing field here with this man. And my situation is certainly not helped as I cannot stop the roar in the pit of my belly or the low moan that emits from me audibly as I taste the velvety-smooth cake and ganache layers coupled with Max’s fingers teasing at the soft spot behind my knee, while he uses his free hand to dig in to his end of the slice we’re sharing. Just before I draw a second forkful into my mouth, his eyes light up and he gives me a leer the size of the entire city.
“See what I mean?” Max eyes me carefully, anxious to know my next move and perhaps thinking that he might just get an easy score tonight after all. But I have one more card up my sleeve. Though if it doesn’t put him off, I may, in fact, have to employ Jasmine to get me out of this one after all.
“Yeah,” I admit. “The cake is really good…” I look at Max coquettishly and go in for the kill. “…It’s almost as good as your bass player. In fact, I think that you should just introduce me to him!” I Look at Max smugly, clearly proud of myself as Jasmine cackles and literally applauds my smashing ace over the net.
“Oh, but I’m so much more fun than he is, luv.” Max recovers quickly, missing only a couple of beats. “He’s like a little old lady. We call him the old Missus.”
“I saw that Spin cover, you know. The uncensored version, even,” I snicker. “So I know you’re a huge liar.”
“Damn.” Max chuckles, teasing me even more. But the relentless carnal attack seems to have blown over for the moment and I breathe a sigh of relief, in spite of the fact that his hand is still on my thigh and shows no signs of moving anywhere.
We all begin to chat again, the mood lighter, and as dinner winds down, the boys invite us to Lillie’s Bordello for even more fun and while I am very inclined to accept, I can’t, thanks to the time and my early meeting. So, I politely decline and once I finish my cappuccino, let Jasmine put me into the hired car to take me back to Avalon House. She has elected to go play with the boys and I certainly can’t blame her for doing so, hell, I’d be going too, were it not for more pressing matters.
Hugs are distributed on the curb from my three dinner companions before I climb into the car and Jasmine and I make plans to meet for lunch tomorrow after my meeting. I wave goodnight as the car pulls away and turn my attention to the small package sent by my mother. Opening it carefully, I pull open the taped box inside of the plain brown wrappings. Inside, is a card with a short note from her and my step-dad, wishing me a happy birthday and telling me that they miss me.
The gift, undoubtedly meant for when I lived in the other city, is two jeweled apple Christmas tree ornaments. One small, “Mini-apple” and a larger “Big Apple” – clearly my mother’s idea of cleverness to play off the two cities’ nicknames and her way of telling me that she had hoped that I’d have decided to stay in New York, if not come home altogether. In New York, at least I’d be stateside. Here though, I’m far more out of reach and forced to be much more self-reliant. I set the ornaments back in their small box with a quiet sigh as the car pulls a U-turn to let me off at the curb to the hostel. The driver wishes me a happy birthday and I smile and respond with a thank you as I meander into the lobby to call my parents to thank them for the birthday gift.
Mercifully, the conversation is relatively short, as I beg off claiming exhaustion and the early upcoming morning. I tell my parents that I love and miss them before hanging up and slowly making my way upstairs to my rooms. There is no television for diversion, so I have, in the last week, become incredibly out of touch with the outside world’s comings and goings and newsworthy items are only heard thanks to the people whispering snippets on the street below. And while I know that I should probably find a way to pay a bit more attention, I’m actually reveling in the lack of current events right now. What I do have though, is music. Because while I’m more than happy to completely tune out depressing news and the like, I could not survive without melody and beat.
Luckily, I have a small set of plug-in speakers for my portable CD player, which I turn on low before dropping Radiohead’s The Bends into the player and collapsing onto the narrow bed. As Thom Yorke begins to sing, the enormity of what happened this evening finally hits me and by track two I’m beginning to rapidly and violently come down from the euphoric intoxication of being so near to God in the form of an Irish singer. I can feel my skin tingling and my breathing quicken as the full night replays in my head and I groan audibly when I fully realize what I’ve done. Exactly how wantonly I’ve behaved tonight. And the tears begin to fall as I spiral to the hard ground in my head and become fully cognizant of the fact that I’ve quickly and thoroughly fallen into the exact same pattern as I was in while in New York, save for one thing — I’m here alone in this tiny room and not in my flirtation’s warm and comfy bed. But does that justify my behavior? Can I allow myself a free pass for my actions simply because I was able to stop before I did something really stupid like act on these desperate feelings to be touched by someone, anyone, and dragged my new flirtation off to a dark corner to do all manner of unspeakable things?
I curl up into a tiny ball to cry in earnest and castigate myself for using Max’s bandmate against him like a weapon and even more for essentially confessing that I’ve been harboring a deep and unfaltering crush on said bandmate pretty much since the dawn of time.
I try, desperately, to stop myself from giving over to this sudden bipolar turn of mood. Reminding myself that I’d played it perfectly. That everyone, including the singer, had found my rebuke funny. That they’d thought I was just playing the game, and rather well, I might add. But the truth is, I’d have given what little I own, down to the last half-penny to have had Owen Mahr sitting next to me at the supper table tonight instead. That while they all thought I was playing, I was dead serious. And I cry all the more for letting myself perpetuate this unrequited schoolgirl crush for so ridiculously long.
As the disc moves into its last track, I have finally been reduced to quiet, breathy sobs, the emotion that’s poured out has pushed my body to the point of full exhaustion and I barely get the alarm set and my shoes off before I fall into a restless sleep.
The dreams tonight are deep and intense; thanks to the ravaging my body has taken during the evening. Between the champagne and the tears, the psychedelic colors swirl around, pulling me ever deeper into this dream space of another warm fire and the same warmer body with a voice so soothing that it beckons me to join him in the warmth without resistance or hesitation. I feel myself sink deeper as the voice speaks of mundane things, of looking for Christmas presents for people whose names I do not know and of decorating a house I’ve never seen nor recognize on sight. I feel soft blankets envelop me and those same strong arms from my other dreams push the nervous knots from my shoulders and the lingering questions from my head and soft hands run gently through my hair as I finally and fully sink into the abyss.
I wake the next morning with a start, remarkably alert and before my alarm again, to the sun filtering through the gauzy curtain into my room. I look down my length to notice that I’m still in last night’s clothes and makeup. I take a deep breath and peel myself off the thick comforter, without the usual internal morning “pep-talk” monologue, before stripping out of my clothes. I cross the small room quickly to go turn on the shower.
Forgetting the cardinal rule of showering, I jump in immediately only to suck in my breath sharply as the first streams of water hit my shoulders like little shards of ice against my skin. Making quick work to wash my skin, face and hair then shave my legs and rinse in less than five minutes as the water oscillates for a moment to likewarn before quickly receding back to ice-cold and in spite of the fact that in some way, I feel like I deserve this torture as penance for last night’s antics, I am all too ready to get away from that particular torture. I wrap up my hair and body before shuffling back into the bedroom area and set about getting ready for the day.
Needing to project some happy vibes onto myself this morning, rather than the intermittently melancholic and overly introspective Radiohead, I grab the most recent Omicron album, hoping that their more upbeat approach to their more recent music offerings will help bring me out of this funk. But as my new friend Max begins to croon in what can only be described as a “fucking me completely into the mattress in the middle of the night” voice, my head spins and my belly lurches and suddenly I’m running for the bathroom, barely making it before I heave into the commode violently.
Fuck, what the hell? It’s only a song!
I flush and rise out my mouth, quickly moving over to the CD player to shut off the offending music, switching it for some Mozart. Breathing deeply then begin to dry my hair methodically, running my fingers through it and the hair-dryer on high as I heat up my curling iron so I can tame the uncontrollable waves from my unruly tresses. I use the large barrel of the curling iron to smooth my hair carefully, section by section.
Once I’m relatively satisfied with the results, I spray a little hairspray into my hands and run it over my hair, taming the last of the flyaways as best I can. I hold my hair back as I vigorously brush my teeth once, then twice, given my morning prayer to the commode and rinse an extra time with mouthwash to ensure that there are no traces of sickness or last night’s champagne on my breath. Needing to err on the side of professional for today’s meeting, I decide on a short black wool skirt and plum tights to match my thin cable-knit silk Diane Von Furstenburg sweater that I found on consignment when I was rebuilding my wardrobe for this journey.
I apply some mascara and lip-gloss, confident that this should be sufficient for my meeting with the curator of the Irish Museum of Modern Art this morning. And as I put my day’s bag together, I chastise myself as I realize that this important meeting is what must have triggered the stomach violence this morning. Not some stupid rockstar and his harmless flirtations.
Realizing the time and that if I don’t get a move on, I will be horribly late, I pull on my cute and comfy Mary Jane heels before grabbing my blanket-turned-coat and run out the door to catch the bus to IMMA for my meeting.
Dr. Carol O’Neill is nice, though maybe a little high strung, but she and I manage to hit it off quickly thanks to a mutual and deep appreciation for the work of the very prolific Irish artist Louis le Brocquy. Honestly, I nearly lose what little cool I’ve managed to bank in my head when she brings me into the underground storage facility to show me the latest work they’ve acquired on extended loan to place in the gallery. It will be my job to extensively photograph and catalogue this masterwork and I have to turn away momentarily to choke down the well of tears at finally seeing his works up-close and in person, for he’s rarely been shown outside of Europe, especially in recent years. Carol, as she insists on me referring to her, smiles sympathetically as she tells me of her first encounter with the artist himself. She giggles conspiratorially as she recounts the meeting, of trying desperately to keep her cool before finally having to excuse herself to go to the ladies’ toilets to completely freak out over the fact that Mr. le Brocquy was actually addressing her directly. She asks if I’ve ever met anyone famous and I try to deflect the question entirely, wanting to separate myself as much as possible from my previous life and not use those connections to further my career. I need to finally try to make it on my own.
“I’m only asking, Katherine, because you will meet people here. Artists and local celebrities at exhibition openings and such, you know.”
“Oh…” I reply quietly, looking guiltily at the floor. Quickly tamping down the excitement that wells in my chest at the spark of hope that maybe Owen Mahr would be one of those people.
“I just want to ensure that you will be okay handling yourself in that respect.” Carol clarifies. “We can talk about expectations there if you feel uncomfortable…” I smile a little and decide as my employer, I should probably opt for total honesty and full disclosure.
“Well,” I begin. “I spent a few years working for Adelig…and I had dinner with Max from Omicron last night.”
“I’m sorry?” She looks at me, gobsmacked, unsure if she heard me correctly. “You used to work for Adelig? Like the singer? The fifteen-time Grammy-winning Adelig?”
“Yes.” I reply, emotionally shutting down. This is what always happens when someone discovers this part of my past. All they want from me after that is to get gossip and dirt about his more unconventional work habits. I busy myself with a loose thread I’ve just discovered on my sweater. “I was one of his assistants.”
“Oh!” She replies a little starstruck. “…And dinner with Max, too. Well, I’d dare say you’ve got the dealing with celebrities thing covered then!” She smiles, not pressing me for further information about either subject before leading me out into the main hall of the museum. And I feel a little guilty for immediately dropping my new boss into the “only interested in my new employee because of her connections” file. So, I quickly decide to open the proverbial window to let her in just a little bit.
“But if it makes you feel any better,” I add. “Louis le Brocquy would totally tongue-tie me too.” Carol smiles and proceeds to give the grand tour of my new working home.
“So, did you have fun last night? I wish you’d told me it was your birthday. I didn’t get you anything!” Jasmine says as we order lunch at the museum’s café.
I make a point of ordering the largest cappuccino offered on the menu, still trying to ward off last night’s mini-binge. The clerk rings up my half-Caprese sandwich and Jasmine’s Croque Monsieur and we take our trays to the side room where there are fewer children and it’s a little quieter so we can, perhaps, speak in less code than usual.
“Jasmine,” I shake my head. “You bought me dinner. I honestly don’t need presents. Shit, I’ve nowhere to put them. I’m in a room the size of a shoebox!”
“Well, technically, I didn’t buy your dinner last night. Max did.”
“What?” I reply startled. “Why?”
“He never lets the girls pay. He’s very North-side like that. You’ll learn, hon.” Jasmine rolls her eyes a little.
“Fuck, so now I have to talk to him again…” I sigh.
“You didn’t like him?” She asks, confused.
“Oh, I like him fine.” I explain, trying not to draw any attention to the fact that I may like him way more than fine and what the fuck does that mean in the grand scheme of things? “I just…it’s just now I feel beholden to him and feeling even more guilty about that crack about his bandmate.”
“Oh honey…” Jasmine looks at me sadly. She is one of three people on the entire planet who would know that I really wasn’t joking with that comment last night. And she is all-too familiar with my deep-seeded crush on that particular man that’s been going on for the better part of a millennium. “He has no clue about that. He thought you were being extremely clever, actually.”
“He did?”
“Yeah.” She chuckles. “You managed to render him speechless, granted it was after you went home. He was scratching his head over it the rest of the night, it was hilarious.”
“Ugh,” I put my head in my hands. “I’m never going to live that down and I’m sure he’s teasing the shit out of Owen about it now, too…” I put on my best Max impersonation; “Oi, Owen…met this crazy American gurl last night who thinks yer hot shit and better than chocolate cake…” Jasmine busts out laughing.
“Well, he did tell me to invite you to the holiday party at his house next Saturday night.”
I look up at her, incredulous.
“So, I’d say you made quite an impression on the man.” She giggles.
“Will he be there?” I ask in a breathless whisper. Jasmine knows exactly whom I’m talking about even without saying more.
“He’s invited. They all are.” She says carefully. “But Katherine, you should know that he hasn’t been around the office much. So I’ve only met him once.”
“Oh…was he an asshole or something?” I ask, not sure of her cautious tone.
“Oh! No!” She snaps back from her gentle warning, putting on a smile that is clearly meant to put me at ease. “He’s very sweet as best I can tell. But he’s also got more than a little of a bad-boy thing, you know.”
Oh yes, I know that part all too well – he’s the rockstar personified – I should run like hell and never look back. I sigh inwardly as my traitorous belly warms at the change in conversation.
She leans in close and I know she’s about to impart some crucial and very confidential information upon me. “Katherine, he just got out of rehab a couple of months ago.” She whispers.
“What?” I ask, pulling away. “But I read all over the place that he cleaned up three years ago.”
“Honey, they have a very good manager and incredibly effective P.R.” Jasmine says quietly. I’ve worked for my own rockstar at the same level as Omicron, so I should know all-too-well how this really works. We all do whatever we can to keep up appearances and make sure the machine keeps running no matter what.
“Shit…” I feel the crush and fear for wellbeing where he’s concerned yank me back into this small circle of conspiracy as I lean back into Jasmine. “Is he okay?” She looks at me sadly, knowing even before I spoke that my protective instincts would surge to the forefront over any and all other thoughts.
“I’m sure he’s fine, honey. He has a lot of girls about looking after him.” She replies.
“What does that mean?” I ask more sourly than intended.
My, aren’t we jealous…
“There are a few girls at the office who aren’t particularly good at hiding their feelings where he’s concerned. It’s comical, really. They’re all just so completely obvious!” Jasmine states bluntly. “One girl, I don’t particularly trust, was a real bitch to me when he stopped to introduce himself and welcome me to the office.”
“Serious?”
“Yeah.” Jasmine sighs. “I think she really believes she’s going to land him for herself and seems to get very territorial where he’s concerned.” I look at her frustrated.
“Does he like her?” I ask, ashamed that this is the one man on the planet who has the ability to turn me into a whiny twelve-year-old girl without even meeting him.
“Not like that,” Jasmine states truthfully. “At least as far as I can tell. He’s cordial to her, but no more than to anyone else in the office.”
“Oh, okay” Jasmine reaches for my hand and gives me a reassuring squeeze.
“Honestly,” She smiles a little more, clearly trying to put me finally and fully at ease. “I don’t think Owen Mahr’s really a ‘fuck with the help’ kind of guy.” I sigh and smile fully, nodding. My ego fully reinflates until it becomes bolstered and back to normal. And my daydreams of a life with my ultimate crush are free to return full-force.