Quiet Stars, Cosmic Insecurities
I swear, I would have stuck with an informal little WhatsApp message to him, but finding out that I’m in the line up of a beauty pageant makes me decide that I need to take a completely different approach. Something a lot less impersonal – something like a menacing phone call. The whole thing only takes a few minutes: I get his message, stare at it in disbelief, somehow manage not to pass out and after a moment the whole universe is contacting me through social networks: people are asking for my friendship, congratulating me and sharing my posts on Facebook and Twitter, and even my voicemail and e-mail accounts are full of messages. Someone is asking me to be the testimonial for their toothpaste, while about two minutes later, Ellen Chullan, a famous image consultant from New Haven, Connecticut, has decided that I am the perfect face for her business and tells me that she can’t wait to meet me in person so she can tell me all about the Five Days for Fashion event! I would have never imagined receiving so much attention after just one press release… and I cannot imagine what is going to happen when the competition actually starts!
While I stare catatonically at my monitor, I suddenly wonder what is going to happen here at The Chronicle when the rest of the office finds out. I can imagine the whole building decorated with pictures of me wearing a bikini, and I feel like I am suffocating. Not the bikini, please! Without thinking twice and forgetting all about Dave’s reprimand, I grab my phone and bag and run home to get changed. After about twenty minutes, I’m in a taxi that smells of gazpacho and one hour later I’m standing in reception at the Ritz wearing a pink tracksuit with my hair gathered up and my phone on silent mode. If anyone wants to complain about my behaviour, they can do it tomorrow. Today my mission is to save my reputation.
“I have an appointment with…” Great, I don’t even know his name! “They’re waiting for me in room number 204,” I say on a second thought.
A girl with a chignon checks something on her monitor without bothering to hide her surprise at my overly casual outfit. “Who should I say is here?”
“Sam. Sam Preston.”
She lifts up the receiver and dials the number of the room while I wait impatiently, tapping my fingers on the desk. She observes me with fake indifference.
“I’m sorry but there’s nobody in the room at the moment. Do you want to leave a message?” she asks after letting the phone ring several times.
“No, there must be someone there,” I say, “please try again.”
I know she would like to call security, but I guess there’s some clause in her contract that forbids her from doing so, so she has to redial the number and wait with me for Al to finish his meditation exercises or whatever the hell it is he’s doing. Unfortunately, the second attempt is unsuccessful too, and somehow she almost seems happy about it.
“You can try again later,” she says, deciding it’s time for me to go.
“No, I actually can’t try again later,” I say agitated. “It’s very urgent, would you please try again?”
I guess not, judging from the way she’s looking at me.
“Please – I had to leave work to get here,” I say, trying to break through her indifference without obtaining any result. I decide to change strategy. “Isn’t there anyone who could… couldn’t you call the management, for example? I need to talk very urgently to the person in room number two hundred… wait, was it two hundred and three maybe? Two hundred and nine? I’m sure I told you the correct number before.”
“Two hundred and four?” she says, moved out of pity to help me.
“Yes, exactly. He invited me to his room.” I correct myself immediately. “He meant tonight, actually, but it’s really, really important that I speak to him immediately.”
“I don’t really know how to help you,” she says, not doing anything and clearly annoyed by my persistence.
“Is there a problem?” a middle aged man wearing a suit asks.
“Hi, my name is Sam Preston,” I introduce myself, “I’m a reporter from The Chronicle. I have an appointment with Al,” I explain. “The Chronicle?” I repeat, hoping to get through to them. “The daily newspaper?” It’s completely useless, but I keep on trying.
“Al?” he asks dubiously. “I’m afraid we have no ‘Al’ staying at this hotel in the moment.”
“Come on, are you really asking me to believe you can remember the Christian names of all of your guests?” I reply, and he glares at me. “Look… he was here yesterday evening. Your colleague Rod was at the reception. You can ask him about me, he will remember.”
“Mr Morrison is not at work at the moment. Would you give me this gentleman’s surname?”
“I actually…” I mumble, before admitting, “Okay, I can’t remember it. But he’s staying here, really he is! He’s one of the organisers of the Curvy pageant,” I explain. “You know, the beauty contest… He was here yesterday evening for the jury selection party. He asked me to stop by today to… err…” I try to play for time. “We’re supposed to talk about the organisation’s new initiatives. You know they are focusing their efforts on… equal opportunities, which, erm, are of course guaranteed to all… all participants… They are trying to raise the audience’s awareness of subjects like, erm, mutual tolerance and communication between ethnicities, which is especially important in a multicultural city like San Francisco. And the local administration has always been a pioneer for its choices in support of… the… integration of different cultures,” I conclude breathlessly. I know that there was absolutely no need to invent such a complicated excuse, but that’s the way I usually react when I feel anxious – I just start talking nonsense. I am not sure why I behave this way, maybe it’s down to a lack of vitamin C or something.
“What are you talking about?” is the only thing the receptionist is able to reply. And honestly, how can I blame her?
But at that point, a baritone voice appears out of nowhere and saves me from continuing making a fool of myself.
“Ms Preston, I couldn’t have summed up the principal goal of our event any better than you just did now.”
I immediately recognise it – it’s Al. As though he had heard my desperate cry, he appears from behind me, smelling of shower gel and talcum powder.
“Do you think so?” I ask, without looking at him.
“Absolutely,” he confirms, throwing a key on the counter. The keychain has a number written on top of it: two, zero…
“Four,” I whisper, smiling.
“A very touching speech,” continues Al, while he signs the guest book.
“It’s something I’m very passionate about,” I reply without raising my eyes from the floor. Both the receptionists are looking at us in dismay. The girl appears to be more intuitive than her male colleague. I don’t have a clue what exactly she thinks she has deduced, but I will admit that our peculiar reactions are suspicious. I’m sure that the first thing she would ask, if she could, would be, “Really? With her?” Although that would probably be the first thing I’d ask too, because to be totally honest I haven’t stopped wondering about it since yesterday. Why me? I mean, did it really happen or did I just imagine it after drinking too much Pepsi? Was it a hallucination caused by consuming too much sugar?
“I could easily have guessed from the way you were talking about it,” replies Al, and I hope I’m the only one who has realised that he’s being sarcastic.
At this point, it’s pointless to keep trying to avoid talking to him directly.
“It’s a real bit of luck that you’re here, Mr…” I reach my hand out while turning towards him with a red face.
“You can call me Al,” he says, shaking my hand gently. Very gently considering all the things we got up to yesterday amongst the azaleas on the terrace.
Meeting him in the presence of strangers, though, helps me answer the question I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since 34th Street: how are you supposed to greet a guy you met the previous night? I don’t mean a boyfriend or a date, I mean someone you literally just met. The guy who offered you a drink at the bar and hit on you in the street, the one you thought you’d never see again. The really cool guy you shamelessly rolled about with amongst the faux leather pillows of the terrace sofas while the party went on without you. The one you know absolutely nothing about, apart from the fact that he’s incredibly ticklish.
“Okay, Al it is, then. Err… I’m afraid I’m a little early for our meeting,” I say, attempting to justify myself while the absurd scene continues.
“You are very lucky indeed,” he replies cheerfully, explaining, “You’re just in time for the photo shoot,” and then he turns towards the receptionist. “Have you already met Sam Preston?”
She shakes her head in a ‘no’.
“Are you serious? She’s the bookie’s favourite to win Beautiful Curvy!”
“No, don’t… don’t listen to him. He’s just joking, that’s all it is.”
“Don’t be so shy,” Al contradicts me, taking my hand. “Anyway, we’d better go now or we’ll be late. Will you follow me please? The hotel has kindly allowed us the use of the second floor conference hall. If we hurry up, I’m sure we can get your pictures in the catalogue in a couple of hours.”
“What catalogue?” is all I manage to say, even though there are plenty more questions I’d like to ask. At the moment, though, the most urgent thing to do is to get away from reception, so I thank the two people standing there and let him lead me along the corridor, waiting for the right moment to talk to him freely.
We walk side by side and he casually says hi to random people we encounter while I just smile. When we’re almost at the lifts, though, I finally whisper, “I think it’s time we got to know each other a little better,” hoping to be able to start crossing out some of the items on the to-do list I’d planned in my mind for this meeting.
For a moment he looks a bit taken back by my assertiveness but recovers quite quickly.
“Ok,” he replies, checking the pocket of his jeans. “Wait here a minute, I need to go back and get my keys.”
I usually hate killing anyone’s buzz but I feel like I think it would be best to clear up any misunderstandings and fast, because I get the feeling that all the early summer hormones in the air might have gone to his head. I firmly grab his arm before he can get too far away from me.
“No, wait a minute,” I stammer in embarrassment, “I didn’t mean…” I wave my hands desperately and avoid looking him in the eye. “Look, for now I would be happy to just know your surname.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, looking somewhat disappointed before trying to make me change my mind with the promise of some bubbles. “Do you realise I have a Jacuzzi in my room?”
“I’m sure you do,” I say, firmly enough to cut off any further discussion and force him to indulge me and give up on his intentions for the moment.
“Ok then, as you wish. Come with me and I’ll introduce you to the others,” he says, pushing a button on the panel by the lift doors and waiting for them to open. I don’t know if he’s really disappointed, but – and I might be wrong – judging from the smile he’s failing to hide, I’d say he’s just trying to make me feel uncomfortable. And I guess he’s amused by my inability to handle my femininity, like some virgin from Victorian times. “We have about twenty minutes,” he explains to me, “before they start with the first group. They weren’t supposed to start until four, but I’m sure they’re all already here.”
“Four? No, I need to get back to work,” I protest. “I can’t stay here until four.”
“That’s why we have to hurry up. I don’t think it’ll take you more than ten minutes, but they need to get you ready first.”
“Get me ready for what? No, wait. Al, we need to talk, that’s why I came here… I…”
“Get in there,” he says, gently pushing me into the lift as soon as the doors open.
“Yes, but hold on a moment,” I say, going along with him without putting up any resistance. “Will you listen to me?”
“I am listening to you,” he replies, while pressing the button for the second floor.
“Well, it doesn’t look like it!”
“Can you explain to me why you’re getting so anxious?” he asks me as soon as the lift doors open again.
I could give him a hundred reasons, but all I say is, “You haven’t even told me your surname yet!”
“You already know my name.”
“How about your surname?”
“Why? Don’t you trust me?
“It’s not that, it’s that…”
“Brent,” he says.
“Your surname is Brent?” I ask in confusion.
“On my mother’s side, yeah.”
“Your mother’s?”
“Yeah. I studied Law at Yale university, I take size ten shoes, I love tacos and…” He stops to take the scrunchy out of my hair with such a sudden move that I don’t have time to react. “And I live with a dog called Buck.”
“Buck…”
“Would you have preferred a cat?”
“Look…” I say, crossing my arms while I wait for this conversation to actually get somewhere. “Oh, never mind!”
It’s obvious that he has no intention of revealing anything about himself and even looks a bit annoyed by my curiosity. There’s nothing I can do – I can’t force him to talk to me. I give up and decide to just go with the flow.