Chapter Twenty

I wake up at nine thirty-seven in a room that’s not my own. Sure, it looks familiar, but it can’t be. No one would have been stupid enough to make a hotel where the walls spin and the floor is on a permanent forty-five-degree slope, and they definitely wouldn’t have the gall to charge as much as I’m paying for it – and yet here I am. The curtains are letting a thin streak of light through – a streak of light brighter than the sun itself, somehow – and with it I can see those damn swans staring at me from the wall, mocking me like an avian version of Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show.

Well, fuck.

Time for a quick stroll down memory lane to try and figure out what actually happened last night. I remember a couple of drinks at the shitty bar that Danielle picked out, and then getting settled at the Coeur de Vie... that much is crystal clear, at least. The first round of Sazeracs, and the second. Jack, charming his way through my friends, taking my phone…

I sit bolt upright in bed, pulling my face away from the oh-so-sexy patch of drool I’ve managed to leave on the pillow, but there’s no need to worry; it’s there on my bedside cabinet without so much as a scratch on the case. Instinctively I reach out to check my messages, but my usual passcode just fills the screen with an angry-looking padlock.

Well, fuck again.

Bigger problems, I tell myself. Carry on with the story.

Where was I? Oh yes. Sazaracs and Jack. The sound of him on trumpet. The crowd swelling in around us as he played. God, he looked good up on stage like that. The details of the picture are a little blurry around the edges at that point – thanks no doubt to Eddie the bartender and his generous pours – but the sight of Jack working his way through the Great American Songbook is clear as a bell.

But it’s not all that happy. There’s the Abercrombie-and-Fitch asshole and his bachelor party (Boring, boring, fat and boring, obviously not as fun as your friends). There’s the alleyway, and almost losing everything – and what a pain in the ass that would have been – but my watch is still firmly around my wrist, safe and sound as it should be. Oh, and of course my gaping head wound; I can’t forget that.

It’s smaller than I remember. In fact, for the amount of blood that came out of it, it barely seems like it’s there at all. Doctor Jack must have done one hell of a job of patching me up.

And walking me home.

And coming up to my room.

And… my God, did we…?

No, that’s not right. No matter how drunk I was, I’m sure I would have remembered that.

Well, that would explain the pyjamas at least. No self-respecting seductress would be caught dead on a post-coital first impression wearing flannelette bottoms and a ratty old Modest Mouse t-shirt, no matter how comfortable it might be.

Doesn’t matter, I think. He probably saw them anyway.

Oh, he definitely saw them. No doubt. I have a sudden, blurred recollection of Jack putting me to bed – of being the perfect gentleman while I got changed, of fetching me a glass of water and tucking me away like a five-year-old – and I cringe internally. So much for that, then. It’s going to be hard to play that one off as just part of my charm.

The glass is empty. I must have finished it during the night, but it’s done absolutely nothing to slake my thirst; my mouth is Texas-dry. Barefooted and shaky, I make my way the three miles to the bathroom one regrettable footstep after another.

I examine myself in the mirror and find a bruise at the base of my spine, no doubt from getting pipe-fucked in the small of my back by that asshole mugger, and another one just south of my knee from… well, God-only knows what; the room is full of unfamiliar low-level furniture that I might have stumbled into.

Something catches my attention. On the sink is a note, written on the back of the hotel’s ‘How Are We Doing?’ questionnaire. I snatch it up, not even thinking about how someone might have just cost me my chance to win 50% off my next trip to the Hotel Belle View (or one of its thirteen sister hotels across the continental United States).

 

Ella, it reads.

Sorry I had to run. Don’t know how much longer you’re in town for, but I’d like to see you again. Head back around to the club if you have the time, OK? If not, I hope you and the girls enjoy the wedding.

Jack

PS. Your phone password is 1959.

PPS. Get some chips for the hangover you’re going to be rocking in the morning. The salt will clear that right up. Trust me on this one – one barfly to another.

 

Pssh, I think. Barfly. As if.

He’s got better handwriting than I was expecting: small and precise and neat, far from the chaotic, freewheelin’ Jack Robichaux vibe I got from seeing him play. He’s a man full of little surprises like that – a thousand and one contradictions in a linen suit jacket. Working the crowd as skilfully as he worked a microphone, and then staying behind to help a poor, dumb out-of-towner to bed without what appeared to be any ulterior motive whatsoever.

Too good to be true, I think. Couldn’t possibly be real.

I check my watch – Thanks again, Jack – and find that it’s still comfortably before noon. There’s the rehearsal dinner waiting for me in the evening, but… I have time, right? It wouldn’t be so crazy for me to go down and see him? I mean, he did ask me too; I've got the note to prove it.

My body does everything I can to resist getting showered and dressed, but before long I look a little more like my old self – still a bit on the tender side, and still definitely not in the market for anything more than the gentlest of strolls, but still faintly recognisable. A little too faintly for my liking. I grab my makeup bag and put it to work: a little foundation to hide the clammy touch of St. Hangover of New Orleans, a little touch-up to make me look as though I didn’t spend the entirety of last night praying at the porcelain altar. Nothing too complicated, nothing too showy. I’m not trying to impress anyone, after all.

Jack Robichaux who?

I take a good long look in the mirror, and then dig out a pair of sunglasses that I brought with me in an optimistic moment – as though February in New Orleans was going to be some exotic island paradise. Well, I’m sure glad I brought them now. The dimming effect helps to convince the team of jackhammer-wielding construction workers who’ve taken up residence in my brain that it might be time for them to take five.

Maybe a walk will do me some good. And if I should so happen to find myself at a certain bar… well, what’s the harm in that, right? New Orleans is a big city, and I’m an out-of-towner. Who’s to say I won’t just get lost, wander down a familiar street, get myself a drink…

I smile. Yeah, that works. I can live with that.

~~~

By now, I could pretty much find the way to the Coeur de Vie on instinct alone; I’ve been in New Orleans for three whole days, and every day I’ve found myself there for one reason or another. Granted, the first time was just random chance, and the second time had me carried there – and back – in a fog of alcohol, but still. My feet find their own way. I’m just along for the ride.

It’s much quieter in the morning, although still open. Tourists don’t work on normal time, and if there’s ever a place where it’s acceptable to drink a mint julep at ten in the morning, it’s while you’re on holiday in the party capital of the south. The whole city is powered by that spirit of ‘Well, why the hell not?’

Eddie is behind the bar, and he smiles as soon as he sees me. ‘You survived, then?’ he asks.

‘Jury’s still out,’ I say. ‘At this stage, I might just be running on fumes.’

‘Yeah, that’ll happen.’ He pulls a packet of chips out from below the counter. ‘Here,’ he says as he tosses them to me. ‘It sounds weird, but the salt’ll–’

‘Make me feel better? Yeah, I know.’

Eddie grins again. ‘Jack’s words of wisdom?’ he asks.

‘Something like that. Speaking of… is he around?’

Eddie shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘He’s not scheduled to be here today, and tomorrow he’s got another gig. He won’t be back until Sunday night.’

My mind flits back to top drawer of my bedside cabinet back in the hotel, where my return ticket is safely stashed. By Sunday at noon, I’ll be six miles up in the air on my way back to Chicago and God-only-knows what awaits me. Sunday night is no use at all.

‘Do you have his number?’ I ask.

Eddie pauses, and I realise just how crazy it sounds: Hey, Mr. Bartender I barely know, can you hook me up with the number of the guy I went home with last night who has mysteriously disappeared? I’m not a stalker, I promise… I just really want to see him again. I wonder if I’m the first girl who’s ever come to the bar looking for Jack after hours. I doubt it, somehow. I try my hardest not to think about what that mean.

‘OK, fine,’ I say. ‘I get it. Privacy and all. Will you give him a message if he comes in, at least?’

He nods. ‘Sure thing,’ he says, pulling out his order book and a pencil. ‘You know, seeing as you’re a regular now.’

‘Tell him...’ Well, shit. Tell him what, exactly? That I had a great night? There’s no way that sounds sleazy. Thanks for making sure I got home in one piece? That’s closer to it, at least, but still not quite there; I would have got home on my own, one way or another. Thanks for being there for me to talk to? For making me feel a little less alone in a strange city when I really was in a terrible, terrible mood? That’s the one – but true or not, it sounds almost chronically lame.

Eddie is waiting for me. Shit.

‘Tell him thanks,’ I say.

‘Just… thanks?’

‘Just thanks. And my number.’

I reel off a string of digits, and watch as Eddie marks them down, looking down at his hand to make absolutely sure he gets them right. Ordinarily, I would have just slipped him a business card, but the few I carried with me – Just in case, I had told myself as I packed them – are back in my hotel room. After all, business cards were for the old Ella. Work Ella. I’m on holiday, for God’s sake. Maybe it’s OK for me not to be completely accessible at all times.

It’s pointless, of course. If Jack had wanted my phone number, he would have asked for it. Or maybe he did ask, and I just don’t remember giving it to him. Or maybe he’s just one of those weirdos who doesn’t have a cell phone, and my number would be of no use to him either way.

Or maybe he’s just not interested in you. Maybe he’s just – God forbid – being nice to a customer.

Yeah, well. Maybe I’m just being nice to him too. Maybe it was just the booze talking, and being sad about Carter, and…

Nope. Keep it light, keep it happy, keep it gay. I take a deep breath. ‘See you around, Eddie,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the drinks.’

‘Look after yourself, OK?’ he says. ‘Any friend of Jack’s is a friend of the Coeur de Vie.’

I nod back at him as I step outside into the sunlight.

That’s all well and good, I think, but what the hell does that make me?